Buick City Complex

elliptical cross trainer

2011-11-30T10:44:00.006-04:00

My running injury fails to heal - stinging pain on the outside of my left foot. I don't want the pounds to pile on so I am visiting the free local gym two or three times a week for a vigorous cardio workout on the elliptical cross trainer. I'm hoping this will keep me in decent shape to resume running in the spring, or whenever this injury eventually heals.

Forty minutes at level five burns nearly 600 calories, the equivalent of a five mile run but without the sights and distractions of road running it's easy to get bored. There is no TV screen. This is a free facility after all. To pass the time I analise the display on the elliptical, using the 'cadence', 'calories burned' and 'time remaining' figures to confirm my effort is on track. Sometimes I pedal/ski for minutes with my eyes shut.

Almost inevitably, people-watching takes over. I start noting the time as someone on the running track passes. I look again as they complete another lap and check their lap time. This varies wildly according to the individual. Serious runners clock the lap at under forty seconds while the less energetic struggle to break the minute. Curiously there are some who adopt a gait where both feet stay on the ground at all times and shuffle round barely above walking pace in seventy seconds. (For the record my usual pace is forty two seconds a lap.)

Now I turn my attention to the rider of the exercise bike to my left, a middle-aged woman sporting a neat shampoo and set. She is turning the pedals at a crawl and studying a paperback propped so that it obscures the display panel and all its vital information.

To my right a twenty something guy in a short sleeve t-shirt is lifting a chunky black dumbbell. His bicep looks like a coconut wedged under his skin and his neck muscles strain like cords. He grunts with each effort.

I turn back to my digital display. 'Time remaining' is six minutes on this, my second twenty minute stint. My heart rate is high at 156 beats per minute and I'm slick with sweat. I love the feeling of my pores leaking away all the toxins. My thigh muscles are firing hard.

When the machine beeps I dismount and wipe down the surfaces. I might not be doing this again until January but I'll try and squeeze in one more visit before we leave for England on Monday.

Cases are packed, itinerary printed, passports stowed and to-do lists are shrinking. Bartons, you are cleared for take off...

the geese

2011-11-06T08:57:00.014-04:00

We were invited to a small private gig arranged by Brian Metzger on Saturday night at the Farm Centre on University Avenue. The Geese, a collective of musicians now based in Vancouver, were in the midst of a lengthy Trans-Canada tour promoting their debut album and kindly agreed to play privately for us in Charlottetown in return for donations to our local food bank.

The venue was a meeting room, perhaps three times the size of a large living room, with about fifty seats arranged theatre style. On arrival Michelle made her way to the front row in four strides and plonked down in the centre. Oh well, up close and personal it is then! I wasn’t sure what to expect, having sampled just a couple of clips on YouTube but hey, this is live music and up stepped four men with beards and a girl with goose wings!

Brief introductions over, they launched into their opening track. We were almost indecently close and could easily have tripped over a beard or two but proximity quickly felt natural and we were soon engrossed in an evening of fascinating entertainment from five accomplished songwriters, musicians and singers.

I like to categorise music (well, truthfully that extends to most things) and pigeonhole bands in a specific genre. I have entries in categories from ‘Americana’ to ‘Roots Rock’ via ‘Britpop’ Blues Rock’, ‘Prog Rock’, ‘Hot Rod Revival’ and a smattering of ‘Cowpunk’! It has been gnawing away at me for some time that the Canadian arm of my collection has been shamefully lacking in ‘West Coast Danger Folk’ so during the rather civilised intermission, I put that right and picked up the band's eponymous, self-released debut album.

Stylishly the Geese swapped instruments, slipping effortlessly from guitar to drums to bass and back as they performed their eclectic repertoire. Country-tinged rock gave way to folk and quirky indie rock with each band member quite at ease stepping up to explain the stories behind their songs, laughing at a broken guitar string and inquiring if the sound needed tweaking at all. They seemed like a group of friends we’d invited round for a knees-up yet their professionalism shone through.

In true rock ‘n roll style with much clapping and foot stamping we persuaded them to stay for an encore, the rousing tribute to their former home Province, ‘New Brunswickers’. I even had the chance to thank them in person when I chatted to a couple of the band afterwards, friendly, relaxed people who had put heart and soul into their performance for our small gathering.

Alphabetical order by band is the only valid way to sort a collection but it often throws up curious juxtapositions. The Geese are now nestling on my shelves somewhat uneasily between Gay Dad and Geldof, Bob!

flying the great divide

2011-10-08T13:01:00.003-03:00

Roughly 3,000 miles separate Canada from England and sometimes the distance makes itself felt more than others. Like when my father died last month or when my grandson Oscar was born. You either organise expensive flights or make do with the phone and emails.

This year I flew to England in January to spend 3 weeks visiting my sons and managed to see various relatives and friends too. I lodged with my dad which turned out to have been a good thing. When I flew back to Canada I was as sure as you can be that I wouldn’t be returning to England for at least a couple of years.

Dad’s death in September meant I dropped everything and flew home for his funeral, a sad affair but an unexpected opportunity to see family again.

My grown up sons are eager to meet their little Canadian half sisters and although I could have taken us all in September, the occasion and the lack of available time prevented it.

To put matters right I have just booked tickets for the 4 of us to fly to England for the month of December! Long-haul flights will be a struggle with Maisie at 3 and a half and Kathleen still under 2 but the timing is reasonable. Kathleen goes for (almost) free as she is not yet 2 and dad’s bungalow stands empty until it is sold, so we can stay there . Michelle’s current nursing course will be over and she has sufficient holidays left to cover the period we are away.

As usual I will try to visit as many people as possible in the 4 weeks we are there but this time everyone will be meeting the girls for the first time and some of them will be meeting Michelle for the first time. There’s a lot to organise and plenty to plan for. I feel a list coming on!

The Parade

2011-08-20T21:27:00.003-03:00

Here are some photos of this year's Gold Cup and Saucer Parade in Charlottetown.

OPPO BDP-93 Blu Ray and Universal Disc Player

2011-08-12T12:21:00.004-03:00

I decided to branch into Blu Ray for certain films. Carrying 50gb of data per disc compared to a standard DVD’s 8.5gb, Blu Ray discs are able to provide significantly more detail for both picture and audio. We won’t see the best of our Hi-Definition TV unless we have a Hi-Def source so I researched players and settled on the Oppo.

I need a player that can handle Blu Ray, DVD, DVDR, CD, CDR, SACD and DVD Audio. Not only that but one which can read discs encoded for all geographical Regions and convert video from PAL to NTSC and vice versa. In short, a universal disc player that can play anything I own whether purchased in the UK or North America.

Oppo is a new American Manufacturer established in 2004 but already making a big name for itself with multi-functional disc players, upper mid-range in price but rivalling high-end competitors for performance. I bought the BDP-93 from an online retailer in Ohio for $630, $100 more than list price for the “region free” modification. Delivery took 4 days by FedEx. Packaging is the best I have seen; a large box with plenty of padding and the player wrapped in a strong linen bag. A separate box within contains cables, leads, wireless dongle and a chunky remote control with beautiful backlighting. I won’t delve into the technical detail of the BDP-93, suffice to say it has played anything I have thrown at it without fuss. The hefty owner’s manual is available online for the curious, as are detailed reviews.

From a user’s perspective, the Oppo’s upscaling of DVDs is great. My picture has never looked so sharp. Blu Rays are notoriously slow to boot up but this player reaches the menu within 30 seconds. So far I have only sampled a Blu Ray transfer of the 35 year old “Exorcist” but even that looks superbly defined with detail and illumination even in the dark corners.

As to sound quality, the player is amazing. I already own good players by NAD, Cambridge Audio and Toshiba but this beats them all by some distance. A universal disc player is all well and good but if you need an additional CD player to achieve quality audio then the point is lost. The Oppo gives the best audio experience I have had. Sound is full and crystal clear. I play it through a Yamaha ampilifier/receiver and Harmon Kardon surround sound speakers and the sound is truly detailed and powerful.

A potentially useful feature is the Oppo is wireless Internet ready and I had no trouble connecting it to my home network. Now a full range of online videos are available via the likes of YouTube and Netflix.

As a bonus you can leave an external hard drive plugged into either of the 2 USB ports and access any audio or video content using on-screen menus on the TV. My entire music collection is ripped to mp3 so unless I am looking for CD quality then I can call up from my armchair anything I fancy listening to. What’s more, the Oppo can read image files enabling you to watch slideshows of your digital photos on the big screen. All in all I’m quite happy with the purchase.

Camping on PEI

2011-08-10T11:41:00.004-03:00

This was our pitch at Marco Polo Land. We camped for 3 nights and enjoyed a mixture of sunshine and showers. I wrote more about it here. And on my photo site there are some of my photos from the weekend.

The Marco Polo was a three masted clipper built in St John, New Brunswick in the 1850s and named after the famed Ventian adventurer. It sailed the seas in a number of guises and indeed setting records before finally floundering on the north shore of Prince Edward Island. In death it gave its name to the the high ground upon which today's campground was eventually built.

Pictures on the other sites show me looking a trifle subdued. I'm afraid the combined stress of taking tots camping and the lousy weather took its toll.

Ian Hunter - Strings Attached

2011-07-28T21:41:00.002-03:00

I bought this Concert DVD on its release in 2004 but have only recently acquired a surround sound set up to fully appreciate it.

Most people have heard of 70’s glam rock act Mott the Hoople, if only for the single “All the Young Dudes” and long term fans from the 1960s and 1970s have followed lead singer Ian Hunter’s solo career with a mixture of frustration and admiration. This very English (and criminally under-rated) singer songwriter has released more than a dozen studio albums in a somewhat spotty solo career but the highlights are high indeed. Until now there has been scarcely any worthwhile footage of Ian Hunter performing live so the long-awaited DVD, "Strings Attached" was always going to be required viewing.

Universal released the set with only basic monochrome artwork and no liner notes, clearly aiming it at existing fans. Video and sound though are top quality, as of course they should be these days. 17 songs that lend themselves to arrangement with strings have made the set list but this is not just a typical Ian Hunter set with accompanying strings. No, all the songs have been rearranged (some fairly heavily) for a 17-piece string ensemble called the Trondheim Soloists. This is IH’s show and he rightly takes centre stage, playing acoustic guitar or singing with hand-held mic. Long time guitarist Andy York plays acoustic and occasionally electric, while there are Scandinavian guitar, keys and drums lurking well into the shadows backstage. Songs like Boy, Waterlow, Irene Wilde and Michael Picasso sound stunning and Ships will surely bring a lump even to the hardest throat.

I am uneasy about 23A Swan Hill and Once Bitten Twice Shy though, which have lost their power and bite and Memphis is barely recognisable. However by the time we reach the rousing finale of Saturday Gigs, it has become quite apparent that IH is taking this opportunity to present the songs to us afresh. His voice is simply superb and I really believe I have never heard him singing better. The violinists and cellists look full of respect for him and are clearly enjoying themselves.

The star of the Bonus Features is a fascinating 30 minute interview. A Norwegian interviewer asks the obvious questions but allows IH the opportunity to say as much or as little as he fancies. It doesn't come across as over-rehearsed and offers a rare first-hand insight into the man's thoughts. There is also a 6 minute film of behind-the-scenes clips where we hear from Joe Elliott, Campbell Devine, son Jesse Hunter and daughter Tracie Hunter (so very like her old man!) Additionally there are complete Mott the Hoopleand IH discographies and a short biography from Campbell Devine.

I enjoyed the DVD for several reasons but on a purely personal level I prefer the hard-rocking electric sets he plays live. Who knows perhaps one day we may be treated to a DVD of one of the Astoria gigs I attended.

Dog Days

2011-07-19T17:29:00.002-03:00

It’s hot and humid. I don’t want to run but if I am to enter the Prince Edward Island Marathon in October I need to increase the mileage. My current ten or twelve miles a week is a decent enough base to build from and thankfully my injuries are lighter than last year.

I still suffer with sore ankles despite stretching, icing and resting after longer runs but not as badly as last year. I have a tendency to blisters on the little toe of my left foot but I am keeping them at bay with something I discovered at the Atlantic Superstore, a tubular piece of sticking plaster (that’s band aid in North American) lined with a firm clear gel. I slip it over the whole toe and it seems to do the trick. I know it affectionately as my “willy warmer.”

My longer runs take me out past the airport and there’s a house on the route which has 4 or 5 boxer dogs always untethered in the front yard. They bark ferociously and stand at the very edge of their territory. As yet they haven’t chased me up the road but as a precaution I slow to a walk as I pass their house. Dog days indeed.

Sunday was very hot but I set off on a 10k run which takes in North River Road and Victoria Park. About halfway I was wilting but I pushed on. My pace slumped on the slightest inclines and I finished in 62 minutes, a good couple of minutes outside my norm. I was exhausted and sank into a cool bath.

Today I ran a short 2.5 miles at a brisk pace in 27c heat. I sweated profusely for 45 minutes when I got home, leaving puddles wherever I stood.

I had 3 teeth extracted last week and another 3 yesterday. More accurately I should call them “retained roots” as they were small remnants of once fine molars, filled and root filled over the years until there was nothing left to repair. I’m taking antibiotics for a gum infection in the wounds. Nonetheless I wanted to run and release some endorphins to ease the pain.

This afternoon I used the Rug Doctor on all our carpets, cleaning a year’s worth of toddler spillages. While some drying took place I folded the laundry and made copies of the BBC natural history documentary "Life" we got from the library on DVD. We’ve been immersed in Ewan McGregor’s “Long Way Round” and still have the extras to watch and we'll watch "Life" next.

I’m listening to Rosemary’s Baby read by Mia Farrow on Audio Book at night. A great story and beautifully written in a simple style.

I should be saving money as we have a few months of belt tightening ahead however I am keen to get into Blu-Ray and have earmarked a player which will play every type of disc and media I own. That is to say Regions 1 & 2 DVDs (both NTSC & PAL pictures), Regions A & B Blu-Rays, Super Audio CDs, DVD Audio, mp3 direct from external hard drive for starters. Watch this space.

this is the modern world

2011-06-08T19:00:00.002-03:00

In less than 30 years we have moved from the floppy disc to the Blu Ray disc and there has been little if any overlap. Nonetheless I thought about comparing the two media in the realm of films. I realise that graphics cards from 25 years ago could not support what we now consider to be “high definition” nor did even regular 1990’s processors have the power to deliver anything more than grainy, jerky video. Undaunted by anachronisms...

the storage capacity of a 3.5” floppy disc from the late 1980’s was a heady 1.4MB. It occurred to me that backing up a Hi-Definition feature film that way would require a barely credible 35,714 floppy discs (50GB). So an avid film buff would need approximately 19 standard sized suitcases to store the discs for one film. He’d also need some manual dexterity because he’d have to feed the discs into a disc drive at the rate of 5 per second for the duration of a 2 hour film.

Or he could just use one dual-layer Blu Ray disc.

***

I hear a detachment of 28 British Policemen are to be offered counselling before returning to regular duty after a gruelling 70 day special assignment next year. Gosh, these guys must be about to see some sickening, brutal things, witness some terrible, gruesome events... no, they are to accompany and guard the 2012 Olympic torch on its 8,000 mile celebratory parade around the British Isles.

***

Acknowledging Maisie on her trike, a walker in Victoria Park remarked in all seriousness, “That child needs a helmet!” Bear in mind Maisie was propelling the afore-mentioned vehicle at crawling speed on a wooden boardwalk. Frankly that grizzled old crone of about 50 might have benefited more from a helmet herself, bearing in mind her pace of perambulation must have been approaching 2.5mph.

I’m all for safety where appropriate but I believe the nanny state has gone too far in the molly-coddling stakes. And they have people believing their propaganda, people like the opinionated pedestrian above, a woman of the baby-boomer generation who lived through:
. babies sleeping on their tummies
. cars with no seatbelts or infant seats
. pregnant mothers smoking and drinking
. lead in paint
. no childproof caps on medicines
. and the list goes on and on and on ...

Perhaps we’ll get our toddlers helmets when they are actually threatening their heads.

sound and vision

2011-05-10T19:49:00.008-03:00

I consider myself technologically minded but configuring a home theatre set-up has had me scratching my head. The theory is easy, plug the dvd/cd/blu ray player into the receiver; connect the receiver to the TV; wire 5 speakers and a sub woofer into the receiver. By now you should be enjoying sumptuous surround sound and glorious technicolour...

Well, nearly!

I should mention there are a mind-boggling 83 (yes, eighty three) inputs/outputs on the back panel of my new receiver. There are several methods of connecting various devices each using different cable types. You can even mix and match the connections.

I went with the latest connectors, HDMI (Hi-Def Multimedia Interface). Far fewer plugs and lengths of cabling to wrestle with and supposedly the best carrier of audio/video signals. However, research showed me that SACDs (Super Audio CDs), which carry vastly more audio data than their standard cousins, require 6 analogue audio connectors to carry discreet 5.1 surround sound signals. No problem, I ordered those and dutifully used them to connect my DVD player to the receiver.

The TV was relatively simple to calibrate and soon displayed a good picture but try as I might I could not get sounds I was happy with through the receiver. Yes the 5 speakers and the sub woofer were making lots of noise but when listening to a 5.1 surround sound version of the 1973 classic Tubular Bells Viv Stanshall's quintessentially British accent was noticeable by its absence when I know he should have been listing each instrument by name as it joined the crescendo near the end of "side 1." Incredibly there were no f$%*ing Tubular Bells at the point when they should have been clanging loud enough to wake the dead!

Clearly something was wrong. I could get the right sound if I selected the multi-channel input but only a thin, weird sounding version with many of the instruments missing if I selected the HDMI input. What's more the multi-channel input supplied no video image whereas it should have been showing a delightful and slowly rotating tubular bell against a changing sky. After much thinking, ploughing through a maze of on screen menus and reading the 122 page manual, the penny finally dropped. My Cambridge Audio DVD player is barely 3 years old but the pace of technological progress has been frantic. Perhaps it can't send surround sound signals through its HDMI output. (Note: I researched this later and found my DVD player uses HDMI version 1.1 and we are already up to version 1.4).

More jiggery pokery with the on screen menus and I was deep within the configuration files. I discovered I could select sound from the multi-channel input and video from the HDMI, a combination which finally solved the problem. Sound and vision are now everything I had hoped for!

I have several SACDs and Music DVDs which, as well as the usual stereo track, carry an additional layer mixed for surround sound. That layer has previously been inaccessible to me but listening now to re-masters of old classics like Dark Side of the Moon, Brothers in Arms and the aforementioned Tubular Bells is a revelation. It really is total immersion in the music. Sounds which were buried in the stereo mix come alive in the 5.1 mix making these old favourites sound fresh and new.

Now that I am beginning to understand the sound set up I have been able to turn my attention to wall-mounting the speakers, hiding the speaker wire in conduit, coiling excess wiring behind the appliances and securing the coils with zip ties. Soon I can think about installing the back to the shelf unit. I now know where all the wires will need to exit and whereabouts there I need to drill slots to carry connectors from one shelf to another. I don’t plan to use the bag of tiny nails which came with the shelf but will probably screw mirror supports in place so that the back can come off with the minimum of fuss.

Who knows, one day we may be able to sit back and enjoy films and music. What a wild and crazy idea!

dreamer

2011-04-25T11:46:00.007-03:00

It's low, way too low. A wide-body jet is circling the town, banking hard and describing loud circles. Its starboard wing points verticaly to earth. Easing out of the turn, it levels then banks to port. It's losing altitude with every second and the engines are screaming now. Somehow the pilot has aligned the doomed airplane with the main street through town and he's aiming to crash land. The plane's wingspan is nearly twice the width of the road. Almost immediately the wings are clipped off by buildings and the fuselage collapses onto its belly. There is a screech of tearing metal as the tube of steel careers along the street, flattening all in its path. There is a brief silence then a spectacular blast.

There's really no need to get dressed. It'll take too long. Anyway, if I hurry no one will see me. I'm not sure where I'm going but it's urgent. I scamper along the pavement, my bare feet slapping on the warm concrete. I slow and walk behind a parked car as a group of people pass by on the far side of the road. They don't even see me. There is no cover for the next hundred yards but I sprint on, confident that if I ignore people they won't register me. Naked running could be the next craze. A car approaches and instinctively I drop my hands to protect my modesty. Heads inside the car turn to look at me and I run on. I think they saw me. Up ahead a couple are walking towards me. I can't avoid them and in fact I recognise them. They stop to greet me and don't mention my nakedness. I feel exposed but carry on a conversation as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

The sun is blazing in a bright blue sky. I'm walking along a road in an average town. I begin to flex my legs then jump slightly, leaving the ground for just a split second. It's a nice feeling. I do it again and find I am not as heavy as usual. I jump perhaps six feet in the air then settle gently back on the ground. On my next jump I flap my arms. It seems a ridiculous thing to try but it actually works. I feel myself propelled higher. I flap again and the upward surge is stronger still. Two more quick wing beats and I'm as high as the rooftops. I can see beyond them to the fields and hills in the distance. I skim the roofs and catch a thermal, suddenly climbing fast. I must be 500 feet above the ground yet I'm not scared. I glide over the town seeing people scurry about like ants. I dive and pick up speed, swooping between buildings then soaring upwards again. A line of pylons marches across the fields ahead, carrying power lines. I have to decide whether to fly under or over the lines. One sharp flap and I'm up and soaring over them. I feel the warm sun on my back and a gentle breeze in my face. I must do this more often.

vista internet security, fake a/v removal

2011-04-02T12:47:00.003-03:00

On my internet travels I picked up a pernicious virus. Vista Internet Security 2011 is a rogue virus posing as anti-virus software. Immediately following infection a fake Vista Security window appears and a "scan" appears to be taking place. In no time a list of Trojans, Worms and other wicked infections appears.

Instinctively you try to close the window when you twig that it's fake but it won't close. The infection results in no Internet connectivity. Whatever programmes you try to open fail to run and instead the fake scan starts up again.

I tried to open System Restore but got the message the 'execute' file for System Restore could not be found. Heck this is serious. I held down the power switch and turned the laptop off.

Fortunately I found a back door. Michelle has a profile set up on my laptop so I rebooted and logged on as her. I found the infection had only hit my own profile so I was able to use Syatem Restore and roll the laptop back to the previous day. I logged on as me again and found my profile clear and unaffected.

This virus has apparently been doing the rounds for a couple of years and has a number of names, all referencing Internet security and all directing you ultimately to a site where you can buy software guaranteed to remove the infection. There is no removal software and there is no genuine infection in the first place. The whole thing is a dirty scam. Many 'tech' websites are listing umpteen adjustments you can make to your Registry to eliminate the infection but none mentions System Restore, presumably because the virus itself disables it.

It's worth bearing in mind my backdoor method. A second profile on the same hard drive will be unaffected allowing access to System Restore. Certainly a safer method than fiddling with Registry Keys.

printer frustration

2011-03-25T09:21:00.004-03:00

I seem to be collecting printers. All the same model. I now have 3 Epson Artisan 725 printer/scanner/copiers... temporarily.

I wanted a new printer capable of producing top quality photographs. Initially I bought an Epson NX510 at Future Shop but that went back when its images were generously supplied with dark horizontal lines. No amount of head cleaning or realignment would stop this. I've had 3 very good Epsons over the past decade so decided to persevere and climbed the range to the afore-mentioned Artisan after some research.

I got a good price from B&H Photo in New York and a large box was promptly delivered 3 days later. Exciting stuff! Except that this model too produced unsightly horizontal lines until I used the highest quality settings. The results are great but it is officially now the slowest printer I have owned, despite advertising to the contrary.

After 3 weeks the printer stopped picking up paper. It clicked, rattled and shook and generally tried its hardest but the paper wouldn't feed. During a thorough inspection I discovered that the CD tray wouldn't descend either. There's a little tray which is supposed to glide out at the touch of a button allowing a CD to be drawn into the innards for direct printing.

By now I'm cross.

The Epson help line is conveniently located 3 time zones away on the west coast of America. After consulting world maps and time charts I calculated the correct calling time and spoke to a representative. After the usual efforts to identify an easy solution she gave up and announced a "new" one would be with me in the post. Excellent, and what's more there would be a pre-paid shipping label to send the faulty one back.

The "new" one arrived the very next day but my excitement soon evaporated. The box was marked 'refurbished' and had ominous damage to one corner - as if it had been dropped from a fair height. Sure enough, when I opened up the package I found a panel had sprung off the underside of the unit, not a repairable thing. To make matters worse the refurbished unit had clearly seen some action. It was scuffed and scratched and was leaking ink through the new hole in the bottom.

I wasted no time in calculating Pacific Time before grabbing the phone and stabbing the Epson numbers in. Another very helpful and apologetic rep listened to the sad story. I told him even if this refurbished unit had been in working order I would have been heavily down on the deal as the one I am sending back is, outwardly at least, in pristine condition. I want a brand new replacement.

This required the approval of his superiors. It took 3 minutes to arrange that but he came back on the line all chuckles and reassurance.

Yesterday our FedEx deliveryman came with yet another large box and a face loaded with deja vu. So... now I have 3. I spent a while setting the latest one up because I cocked up the wireless settings at first. Uninstall failed but System Restore did the trick and I started again. Hooray, we're up and running.

All that remains now is for me to drive two 35 pound boxes to the FedEx office to get them out of my sight!

rock on

2011-03-13T11:21:00.008-03:00

These are covers from the first few vinyl albums I bought in the 1970's. I still own half of them and have all of them on CD in various formats. I occasionally play the Supertramp and Mott the Hoople but mostly they just take up shelf space. No matter, I not only listen to music, I collect it for the sake of collecting too.

Lately I have been ploughing through my Excel database and updating values (or at least replacement costs) for music. These days most mainstream CD albums can be bought for a tenner or less (ten Great British Pounds Sterling!) but I have plenty of less common pieces in my collection, maybe a quarter of which are no longer in print or at least not available in their original form.

Remember I'm talking about modern CDs here not crackling vinyl. You'd think the older something is the more costly it would be to replace... not so in the muic world. It's all about supply and demand. Sometimes an album is released with a limited print run and stocks disappear within a year. It's not always lesser-known bands this happens with. Take Bowie's "Ziggy Stardust" an album which has been around for almost 40 years and has seen more than a dozen releases with anniversary editions, remastering, new packaging and bonus tracks. In 2003 EMI put out a Super Audio CD version (SACD) which, as many will know, contains not only a stereo layer but also a 5.1 surround sound layer, all remixed using modern technology. Out of print for 7 years, it will now set you back a cool $75.

It is alarming to find albums in my collection like Wizzard's "Eddy and the Falcons" commanding prices of $90, or Supertramp's live release "Is Everybody Listening" going for $40. The gorgeous Mott the Hoople Box set "Anthology" is impossible to find for under $200. The Libertines' 2003 single "Don't Look Back into the Sun" sells on eBay for $50. Ian Hunter's releases sold to a small cult market and I have a dozen or more that show up from resellers on Amazon at over $50 and his poorly received 1981 2-disc set "Short Back and Sides" can't be replaced for under $120. Green on Red's pairing of "Gas Food Lodging" with their eponymous first album will cost $40. Even mediocre reviews and ratings don't matter, it's rarity that counts.

Of course none of this is in the same league as pink vinyl pressings, picture discs or sleeve art printed in reverse by mistake but nevertheless time is passing and the seemingly ordinary is slowly becoming extraordinary.

snow and ice in Charlottetown

2011-03-05T12:03:00.009-04:00

This is our apartment building, under siege from the toughest winter in quite a few years. The weatherman, "Boomer" Gallant tells us over 4 feet of snow has fallen. It has been cold and the deep snow has compacted under its own weight bringing down roofs. Schools have been closed several times.

Here are some more photographs of Charlottetown in the grip of winter. Some of the ice formations clinging to roofs and eaves are spectacular.

The streets have been ploughed almost daily, sweeping ever higher banks to the roadside, filling people's gardens and driveways. Miniature ploughs skuttle along the sidewalks resulting in walls of frozen snow separating pedestrians from traffic. Intersections have taken on an unfamiliar look with mounds of ploughed snow blocking views. You have to poke your nose out quite far to see if it's safe to pull away. Car tyres grind against chunks of brown ice clinging like granite barnacles to wheel arches.

I took this snap of the corner of my laptop screen just before hurrying down to the bins in my shorts and T-shirt. It took my breath away!

borrowing DVDs, permanently

2011-02-20T07:47:00.005-04:00

How very satisfying to trudge home through the snow clutching your latest box-set of a solid British drama series. Even better as the Library lends DVDs for free. There are buts coming and they're tricky ones. But what if the set is in high demand so the loan period is only 7 days and there are 4 discs containing 12 one hour episodes? What if you have a busy week ahead just as this treasured series has become available?

Make copies! Not for broadcasting or sharing of course but to allow you that little extra time to view them in. Oh, and it’s useful to have the set handy in case you want to watch it again, right? But DVDs are usually between 6GB and 8GB in size whereas a blank DVD-R holds a mere 4.7GB. What to do? Are we thwarted? Not on your Nelly!

Squeezing lots of video data onto a small disc is certainly possible but you have to shrink the file. I have an interest in solving technology challenges and this is the copying method I have developed. The freely downloadable software DVD Shrink is a good place to start. It compresses the data during copying to ensure it will fit comfortably on any commercially available blank DVD. It’s easiest to choose to rip the disc as an ISO image file.

But to back up for a moment (pardon the pun), it is a good idea to clean the discs thoroughly first. In the case of well-worn discs, deep scratches will be unreadable by a computer drive so you may as well give up at this stage and save yourself the hassle. But light scratching, which will be bothersome to a computer drive, can be polished down sufficiently using a car body scratch remover – the kind that will gently buff away surface scratching.

Sometimes no matter what you do, the disc may be impossible for your drive to read, it may be badly pitted. Or perhaps you want to rip a ‘Region 2’ disc in your ‘Region 1’ drive. Try DVD Decrypter. That has more powerful features, will crack regional encoding and seems less fussy. Europe is Region 2, North America is Region 1 but DVD Decrypter will render the copied image region-free. However, the ripped file you end up with this way will still be far too big, so you will need to reduce the ISO file size in DVD Shrink. Earlier we shrunk an actual DVD but this time you will need to “mount” the ISO file on a virtual drive. Magic ISO will achieve this by treating the ISO file as a playable DVD and will allocate a virtual drive letter to it.

When you’ve at last got an ISO file on your hard drive coming in at just under 4.7GB then you’re ready for the easy bit, the burning. I use Nero or Roxio but any burning software will put the ISO image file onto a blank DVD. I find DVD-R discs are readable by most DVD players. I don’t notice an appreciable loss of quality even though the copied image is considerably smaller than the original.

After all that effort you’re ready to watch. Slip into your old slippers, light your pipe and relax in your favourite armchair... and don’t forget to take the DVD back to the library, you don't want a late fee do you!

making new music

2011-02-16T21:21:00.006-04:00

I returned from England a couple of weeks ago with, among many things, a great deal of new music. It came in the form of mp3 and wma files stashed on my external hard drive. This trove came from a friend I visited in Birmingham. He lives in a 90 room mansion but curiously confines himself to a single suite positively brimming with CDs and vinyl.

He and I have exchanged music for years. To sidestep any legal difficulties I prefer to think of it as storing backup copies for personal use (3,000 miles away). Luckily for me he has other friends who are equally acquisitive on the music front and are just as keen to keep copies somewhere safe and sound. This arrangement makes for a vast reservoir of music into which I can occasionally dip.

Usually these exchanges take place under plain brown cover through trans-Atlantic correspondence but this time, after 2 flights and a 200 mile drive up the M5, we could hook up USB-wise and plunder each other's external hard drives with abandon. The result of this debauchery was a horde of around 90 albums. Plus of course an interesting and entertaining couple of days during my 3 week trip back to England.

Extreme Virgo tendencies won't ever let me leave it at that. Oh no, the harvest was just the beginning. Now the online work would begin in earnest. First a quick sampling to identify candidates for burning to CDR, then a tidying up of "tags" to be sure all tracks are properly labelled with title, band, album, genre and year. Next comes the job of burning to CDR, a big task but worth it for those albums which I will want to hear on my hi-fi.

Temporary labels adorn the pile of discs at this stage while the printing phase swings into action. This is a time consuming but vital part of the exercise if the CDRs are to be protected for storage on my shelves. Google Images is a happy hunting ground for the cover art and sites like Amazon provide track-listings which I can either copy and paste or transcribe. I paste the images and data one by one into an MS Word template I made many moons ago. Each gets printed on white cardstock.

Next out comes the guillotine and I do some trimming. I've done this so often now that I can slip the card in out and bring down the guillotine arm almost before the card has stopped moving. Swivel it round 90 degrees and slice off the excess, repeat twice more then cut around the folding tabs. Folding each tab is a long process with a batch this size but makes the gluing stage easier.

The tabs are brushed with a glue stick then the whole template is folded into its final shape, a slim CD-sized sleeve. While the seams dry I start on labels for the discs. These I form from a homemade template in DesignPro Lite. I keep the labelling simple just band, album title and year. I pick a background colour to match the cover art and print off the labels, two to a sheet.

I apply the self-adhesive labels with a trusty Fellowes labelling device which emigrated from England with me years ago. Finally I slip each CD into its new case and there it is, a stack of music to play on the hi-fi.

the Realplayer Video download phenomenon

2011-02-08T23:00:00.005-04:00

Some months ago I downloaded the latest version of Realplayer. It’s not my preferred software but I needed it to watch a particular video. Since then I began to notice the appearance of an invitation: “Download Video with Realplayer?” whenever I hovered my mouse over a video link.

Still not that interested in the message, I ignored it. Easy... as it vanished whenever I moved my mouse pointer away. Who downloads video anyway? With modems and routers permanently online these days, any video you might want is only a click away, right? Yes, but recently I decided to download a documentary to watch on my iPod. I clicked on the Realplayer message and collected a chunky video file. Next a dialogue box asked me what format I would like to convert the file to. The options catered for a host of end viewing platforms. I chose mp4 (for iPod).

But where is all this leading? I watched an hour long documentary on a screen the size of a matchbox but hidden in the recesses of my mind was the list of other file formats I had spotted on Realplayer’s lengthy menu of conversion options.

Fast forward to last week when I was rummaging through a horde of over a hundred mp3 albums I had acquired from my friend Steve during my trip to England. Oddly some albums were missing a track. The cogs in my head turned and there was a faint smell of burning. Hmm, music tracks are widespread on YouTube. Could I download the video the relevant video file using the obliging Realplayer downloader then convert to mp3 using the helpful Realplayer file converter? Yes, it worked!

Teenage scavengers of music may well have winkled out this little scam long ago but I have only just hit upon it. Today I picked half a dozen albums from my wish list, obtained a tracklisting for each, searched for the tracks on YouTube and found 99 per cent of them.

I triggered the Realplayer Downloader, did another search, hit the download button again and soon had a dozen tracks in varying states of download in a jolly nice list-box. A few were preceded by irritating advertisements but the helpful men at Realplayer had that covered too. When the download is complete you just call up the handy Realplayer Trimmer, set start and end points on the video file and clip off the loathesome parts.

Then you select your video files and choose mp3 from the list of conversion options. After the swift conversion process you’re left with a music file recognizable by any portable player. I like to burn the best albums to CDR for my hi-fi so I chose a high-ish bit rate for mp3 encoding.

Next you slip the files in a folder named after the album and slip that in a folder named after the band. Then you open the music file “tag”-editor by right clicking the tracks and choosing “properties”. That way the music is tidily identified when imported into Windows Media Player.

I’ll print some of my patented card cases to store any burned discs complete with cover art harvested from Google Images and that will conclude activity on this batch.

I should acknowledge that downloading is usually slightly illegal. But this method uses software available free from Internet giants and does not involve wicked file-sharing sites. Users of the YouTube/Realplayer system rely on naughty people uploading their favourite new music to YouTube so when wind of all this gets out I anticipate a flurry of deletions from YouTube. Well, maybe not. Literally millions of tracks from almost any CD you care to name, new or old, mainstream or obscure are on YouTube either with a video or a still image.

Finally, I am a fan of many bands and have spent a small fortune on a large CD collection and scores of concert tickets. For more than a casual listen I support the artist and invest in the CD (if you can call this convoluted process of downloading, trimming, converting, tagging, burning and printing casual!)

then and now

2011-01-10T14:04:00.005-04:00

In 1986 someone, I think it was my sister, pointed a camera at me during a family reunion. I remember grabbing my son Mike and holding him upside down by his legs in a show for the camera. Mike squealed and laughed a lot which is why heads turned to watch us. His brother Matt is sitting on his mum's knee smiling. The result was a snap I still enjoy looking at.

Yesterday, nearly a quarter of a century later, I decided to try and recreate that shot with my new daughters. Kathleen is a less willing participant, being one who hangs on for dear life whenever I lift her off the ground. Nonetheless she looks the part and even her sister Maisie is looking toward the camera.

a deal with the devil

2011-01-04T13:51:00.006-04:00

Niccolò Paganini was an Italian virtuoso violinist who lived from 1782 until 1840. To say that he brought incredible new techniques to the violin would be an understatement of massive proportions.

It is impossible to over-estimate Paganini’s impact on the violin. No composer or performer before him had raised technical ability with the instrument to such dazzling heights. People flocked in great numbers to witness his legendary performances, in which he exuded an almost mystical quality.

Violin techniques had remained conservative for decades but Paganini introduced ricochet bowing, double stop octave runs, left hand pizzicato, extensive harmonics and hitherto unheard of fingering. He played passages at astounding speed, sometimes twelve notes per second. He made the violin talk, effortlessly reproducing the sounds of birds and animals and even mimicing the sighs of lovers. His fingers were abnormally long, enabling him to play an astonishing three octaves across four strings in a hand span, a feat that is still considered impossible by today's standards.

Stories began to circulate that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil in return for his amazing wizardry with the violin. His wild, piercing eyes, thin face, large sharp nose and long, gypsy-black hair only served to support the theories. Far from discouraging the rumours, Paganini cultivated them by dressing in all black and wearing long capes. He frequently broke strings yet played on sometimes with only two strings yet with no noticeable difference. Audiences gasped and fainted at his performances.

Paganini’s musical legacy is a small one compared with giants like Bach and Mozart but his compositions represent the sternest available tests. His complete works fit onto half a dozen CDs. However, nearly 200 years after their composition, his 24 Caprices are still the very highest pinnacle of achievement on a stringed instrument. Violinists who have learned and mastered to concert standard all 24 of these short but complex studies in finger co-ordination are a rare breed indeed, fewer than the mountaineers who have climbed Everest. Here is Caprice No. 24.

“The Cannon” was Paganini’s cherished instrument. It has a distinctive depth and resonance that defined Paganini’s unique expression. It is on display in Genoa and is occasionally loaned out for public recitals where its power shocks and awes listeners to this day. Few other instruments provide such a direct link with a musical genius.

keep music miserable

2010-11-26T13:12:00.004-04:00

Judge a book by its cover? Me? Well maybe a little bit.

Alright, I admit it. I don’t find it necessary to carry out a full assessment when a cursory glance with a practised eye will tell me all I need to know; will warn me of potential boredom. Time is too short to waste sieving babies from bath water!

Take film genres for example. Scanning a review, I only have to spy the words ‘heart warming,’ ‘inspirational,’ ‘wacky’ or (heaven save us) ‘screwball adventure’ and I read no further. No good can possibly come of wallowing in such drivel. Now, take ‘supernatural,’ ‘paranormal,’ ‘horror,’ ‘alien...’ all these will catch my eye. If I should detect ‘exorcism,’ ‘abduction,’ ‘conspiracy’ or ‘vampire’ in the same paragraph then I’m sucked in.

It’s true, I am swinging wildly between extremes here. But that’s not a bad trait, eh? You know where you stand, or at least I do! That’s not to say I won’t ever watch a ‘chick flick.’ I have been known to allow these in my DVD player and even permit a slight grin or release a low chuckle at a ‘hilarious comedy’ but I’m happiest in my preferred habitat – ‘dark,’ ‘serious,’ ‘psychological thriller,’ ‘alternative comedy...’ you get the picture.

Is there a possibility I may have missed some subtle and engaging story by my dismissive choices? Perhaps. Over the decades I estimate I have dumped several million gallons of bathwater so there is a chance I have thrown out a baby or two. (Gently of course!) But that’s ok they do bounce!

I have an interesting DVD collection. Some would say, scary, black, depressing and troubled but hey, I own the musical ‘Oliver’ and the ‘Back to the Future’ trilogy so it’s not all doom and gloom! (Says the proud owner of ‘The Shining,’ ‘The Exorcist,’ ‘The Omen’ and ‘Silence of the Lambs!’

In fairness, even I detect a trend here. I prefer ‘sad’ over ‘happy,’ ‘ironic’ over ‘funny’ and ‘bleak’ over ‘uplifting.’ This is even more true of my music collection. I haven’t counted (yet) but I would bet more than 50% of my music is in a minor key! Whoever said “the only good songs are sad songs” has a powerful point. (Actually it might have been me!) Wait a minute, I have R.E.M.’s ‘Shiny Happy People’ on their album ‘Out of Time.’ But that’s ok, I usually skip that track!

Music stirs the emotions and mostly, though I concede by no means always, the darker emotions, sorrow, loneliness, loss, fear and disappointment. There is nothing missing from my collection of Pink Floyd, Radiohead or Dire Straits, to cite a few dinosaurs, and they are largely miserable. Fantastically miserable! A melody may be evocative of a certain mood but the lyrics coax that mood to full bloom. Consequently I can’t listen to anything bland or repetitive. I demand quality lyrics that can stand alone as poetry. Gloomy poetry of course!

Whoever heard of a happy poem? That would be a limerick! Poetry is another example of art appealing to the darker emotions and surely best exemplified by pieces like Wilfred Owen’s “Anthem for Doomed Youth” or Ted Hughes’ “The Thought Fox.”

All of this rambling thought brings me to my long-held conviction that the best artists, be they in the fields of literature, poetry, music or even comedy, are mainly mad or sad or both. Yes even comedy, the very best comedy, is a hair’s breadth away from sadness and madness. Pathos is powerful. Try laughing uncontrollably and you’ll quickly realise you’re crying really.

Most of this boils down to depressive thinking. To depict suffering in words or oils, in reality or irony, first you must study suffering. That’s just one example. But consider the various dark corners artists repeatedly explore, despite the warnings of those who have gone there before: death, despair, futility, anger, hatred and regret. It’s not surprising that some of the most exceptional authors, poets, songwriters and clowns have succumbed to depression and madness. I used to have a list of all those who suffered but it grew so long it became redundant.

Therefore, art equals misery and insanity. Q.E.D.

... now where was I? Oh yes, having fun!

the label maker

2010-11-15T18:01:00.006-04:00

The eagle-eyed among my select readership will have noticed the appearance of labels on my entire blog archive. Michelle suggested this idea as a way for her to delve into my literary nonsense with at least some direction. Speaking as an indefatigable cataloguer, lister and categoriser, self-certified neat freak and all-round terminal Virgo, it is frankly astonishing that I hadn't done this sooner!

So, after three hours of browsing, choosing and applying labels, there is now a "tag cloud" sitting ominously in my sidebar leading the curious to fictional flights of fancy, pompous pontifications and rip-roaring reviews. For those with a visual preference, many posts still carry links to my photo site. This has proved an interesting trip down memory lane.

I found the exercise supremely satisfying. Similar but on a slightly smaller scale to completing the writing of my "Memoirs to age 50," listing my complete worldly possessions, scanning my 3,000 35mm photographs, tagging them all along with the 14,000 or so digital photos in my files. It leaves me feeling comfortable. Yes, tidiness is very soothing in a chaotic world, therapeutic even.

There came a time when I couldn't rest until my music, film and book collections had been catalogued in Excel spreadsheets. Now for example, I can sort the whole music file into alphabetical order by band, chronological order by release date, alphabetical order by genre, chronological order by purchase date, ascending order of purchase price, descending order of 1-10 personal rating and... need I go on?

... ok I will. I have all 1400 CDs ripped to mp3 on my hard drive (with obligatory backup of course).

My stamp collection includes used examples of almost every British issue since 1840 and mint examples of everything since 1900. My coin collection is practically complete with every British coin minted since 1837 (plus a fair quantity of European, American and Canadian examples). Oh, and of course they are all catalogued in exciting spreadsheets! I had weeks of fun scanning the coins (both obverse and reverse naturally)!

Is it all a sickness, an affliction of details? Probably. But does it rule my life? Not so as you would notice, I hope!

Now, where's my label maker? :)

Someone shoot me if I start printing labels for "TV," "couch," "fridge," "spoon..."

Prince Edward Island Marathon – a bittersweet day

2010-10-18T21:52:00.012-03:00

Last Sunday I ran my first marathon - 26.2 miles, or as they say in Canada 42km. I have been running for 3 years up to 15 miles a week so reckoned I had built a good base from which to launch a 16 week marathon training programme.

Despite injuries earlier in the year I had managed to raise my mileage steadily until I was covering 35 miles a week including long runs of 16 and 19 miles. Eventually however the training took its toll with sprains, strains and general exhaustion. I allowed myself 2 light weeks of training and the aches subsided but my ankles in particular were tender. Nonetheless by race day I was still hopeful of completing the marathon in 4 and a half hours, a realistic goal considering the times I had consistently run in training.

Sunday dawned cold, windy and raining and the surf on the north shore was boiling as we swung into Brackley Beach Car Park. Runners were milling around, stretching and warming up under the shelter of trees and in the lee of low buildings. The girls looked wet and bedraggled in the early morning gloom and must have wondered why the hell we had dragged them out into the wind and rain!

As 8am approached I lined up near the back of the 265 participants. This is a very small event – forget the tens of thousands of London, New York and Boston. At the gun we set off into the rain with the wind whipping at our backs. I discovered straight away that my iPod was stuck on repeat and being blind as a bat I couldn't change the playback settings so stuffed it in the pocket of my drinks belt and ran in silence. What a bummer after crafting a fantastic 50 song playlist!

I let faster runners disappear into the distance and settled into my own pace, monitoring my progress against a small laminated chart I’d made, showing kilometre split times. At the halfway point, 21km, we turned off the roads and onto the trail. I was on track at 2 hours 13 minutes and I reached the 31km mark spot on at 3 hours 13 minutes...

Then I hit the wall. My knees buckled repeatedly and each time I limped and hopped until the pain eased. My pace dropped and runners began to pass me. The rain fell and the wind blew and at times it was all I could do to keep grinding away, one foot in front of the other with short strides. My knees, ankles and hips protested with each pace and I felt cold wet and miserable. I managed a weak smile for the thin groups of supporters who had valiantly turned out along the route.

By now I could see no one in front and no one behind me, yet I knew there must be more, trailing at the back. As I stumbled the final 10km I lost huge chunks of time. 4 and a half hours was no longer on and indeed I would drop 25 minutes in the final 10km. Gatorade, water and energy gels were available at regular points. If nothing else, I should probably have drunk more.

I don't know how I finished the final drag of 6km from Sears into downtown. I limped and gritted my teeth and grunted in pain and watched stragglers pass me. I stopped to take a shoe off when some padding on a sore toe broke free in my sock but other than that and a couple of stops to stretch my legs, I ran the whole distance.

I finished in 4 hours 56 mins. My race number had long since blown away in the wind but my lace-mounted timing chip triggered a display in the commentator's booth as I approached the finish line and his excited voice boomed my name over the public address! Michelle and Cheryl were there to cheer me home and I all but collapsed into the arms of the volunteers handing out "space blankets." I limped to the car and when we got home my lips were blue and I was shivering. A half hour soak in a steaming hot bath followed by an hour in bed pulled me back closer to the land of the living.

This morning my muscle stiffness is bad and I can barely hobble from one room to another! I wish I could say running my first marathon was a profoundly uplifting, emotional experience but I can’t. It was horribly hard under nasty conditions and I just felt lousy, wet, cold and miserable. I hurt like hell and I am disappointed in my time which was dragged so low by being unable to jog above a brisk walking pace for the final 10k. I know I was capable of a more respectable performance.

To balance this bleak summary I must acknowledge that this was my first attempt. At the ripe age of 53 I accomplished something fewer than one in a thousand islanders did. (Of the 265 participants over two thirds were from off the island.) I completed the training through all weathers and despite injuries, I finished the marathon and I didn’t come last! I made a decision, committed to it and achieved my aim.

It’s still only a day ago that I ran 42km. It’s too soon to make objective statements about the future. I want to say I hated it and I will never again put myself in such an uncomfortable place. I shouted those very words somewhere along the Confederation Trail with only the wind for an audience. It’s still a true statement as I sit and type this. When the pain has receded and the cold, wet memories have faded will I think differently? I might.

Lessons learned:
1. Set off even slower
2. Check iPod before abandoning my glasses
3. Drink more en route
4. Wear warmer clothes if it’s blowing a gale and raining
5. Run fewer runs in training but make the weekly long run longer and slower.

Thank you to Michelle for the amazing photos.

i'm related to former president george w bush

2010-10-08T21:18:00.007-03:00

Quite how this discovery changes my life, I’m still trying to decide. The genealogical chart above opens quite blurred when you click on it due to the drastic reduction from its original size. Click the image again and it will expand but the size still just about shields identities. For the curious, I am to the lower left hand corner and my long lost presidential cousin is near the bottom right.

Some time ago I traced a distant line of ancestors by the name of Packard on my father’s side in the eastern English county of Suffolk but I lost track of them somewhere in the early 1800s. As is usual with genealogy, I got side-tracked on numerous other lines of enquiry and thought no more of the Packards until this week...

The beauty of the crumbling bones of long-dead ancestors is that they aren’t going anywhere in a hurry, so you can put them down and pick them back up much later and they’ll still be there. I returned to my Packards this month and discovered a fascinating pedigree online which included a prominent Packard in my own lineage. With me so far?

Out of sheer greed I copied the 100 or so names in this pedigree into my own records, pushing my Packard line back to a barely credible 1486AD! Out of curiosity I scanned the descending lines of this online treasure trove and the first one I followed led to a family of Packards who emigrated to the States in the 1700s where they threw down roots and thrust up branches up and down New England.

I continued to follow this line but when I reached the late Victorian period the male Packards had petered out. While I was idly fiddling with a dwindling female arm (so to speak) I spotted a Sheldon marrying in and fathering a daughter, Flora Sheldon. Bells of familiarity began to ring. I quickly realised Flora married Samuel Prescott Bush and they produced Prescott Sheldon Bush – he the subject of many conspiracy theories ranging from the assassination of JFK to the Bilderberg Group to funding the Nazis.

This helpful online pedigree listed later descendants as "living" so dutifully withheld their names in the interests of privacy. Of course the next two generations are the George Bush’s, senior and junior, as a cursory glance at Wikipedia will confirm!

My Family Historian software reliably informs me George W Bush and I are 11th cousins once removed. Or in other words, we share a common ancestor 15 generations ago. What all this means I am not sure. One thing is fairly certain, I am unlikely to be invited for cocktails at a leafy retreat in Rhode Island or Connecticut or wherever the bigwigs hang out these days. However, I might be spirited away to Quantico for interrogation.

the loneliness of the long distance runner

2010-09-24T14:49:00.026-03:00

You might think this statement, borrowed from the title of a 1962 film, is a complaint. It's not. I enjoy the isolation of running alone and the self discovery it brings. On short runs I wear only a thin layer of Lycra, running shoes and a watch. There was a time when I regarded 10km as impossible but now that classes as a short run. For me 10km is 58 minutes to unwind; to settle into a rhythm of stride pattern and breathing; to shake off angst and frustration.

Now I regularly run up to 30km. On the road for 2-3 hours at a time, I find controlled breathing and stride length becomes hypnotic. Setting off under the stars at 5:30am I can drift into a twilight world, only dimly aware of the passage of time and the rolling by of roads, houses, fields, woods and miles. Early in the run I chew over problems, decisions, anxieties until those thoughts begin to fade. After an hour or so my mind is almost empty. Even as dawn breaks only my footfall connects me to the planet. That's the point at which I really begin to absorb the 50 song playlist injected into my ears by my iPod. Tracks that span the length of my life beat in my head. Each new cross fade brings a new decade and different fragments of memory...

2 years ago I ran my first half-marathon. When you enter the realm of long distance running you discover your body's natural limits. If you are not blessed with the physiology of an "elite" athlete you will need to drink during runs longer than one hour. Much beyond that and you will need to eat too. Standard issue muscles can store enough glycogen to power them for maybe 90 minutes to 2 hours before you slow to a crawl then stop completely. The first time I experienced exhaustion, headache and nausea after 2 hours of running I thought I was simply unwell. Cold and shivering, I walked the remaining mile home with barely the energy to drop into a hot bath. I took that lesson only once.

This year I developed the tentative idea of entering a full marathon. 26.2 miles is a special distance, well beyond reach without months of punishing training, building muscle and stamina, forcing your body to adapt to burning fat as well as glycogen to drive muscles. I had been running throughout our uncommonly mild winter (minus 10 is mild by Maritime Canada standards!), covering 15-20 miles a week so had maintained last year's conditioning. Michelle bought me the "Non-Runner's Marathon Guide" and after devouring it I calculated I could move seamlessly from my current weekly mileage into the 16 week suggested training programme by the first week of July. I hadn't bargained on injury.

From a combination of over-training in April and a new pair of running shoes I damaged the arch of my left foot. Such was the pain, I couldn't run at all in May and June. I nervously watched the arrival of July and decided I would test the foot despite residual pain. I had lost some cardio-vascular fitness despite visiting the gym pretty much every day to use the "eliptical cross trainer" and it took me several weeks and yet more new running shoes to recover my stamina - but I did. The chart above shows the mileage I have run in the past 3 months - 4 runs a week, including one long run on Sunday morning. On long runs you need to take some of your world with you. I wear my iPod; a belt to carry my drinks bottle, energy gels, lip-balm, Vaseline and mobile phone.

For the past 6 weeks I have run a half marathon or further every Sunday with a longest run of 19 miles. This has taken a toll on my ankles. Swelling has made the interior ankle bones red and sore. For the first time I missed a scheduled run this week and know I won't be able to cover the recommended miles before October 17th. I ran 10km last night in my fastest time ever but my ankles are tender and raw this morning. I plan to begin the taper early and reduce my mileage to one long run and one medium run for the next 3 weeks in the hope of reaching marathon day in decent enough shape to finish the race.

So, health permitting, I may be ready to tackle those 26.2 miles (42km) and it might take me around 4 and a half hours, a time frame for running that would have shocked me until recent years. Through sheer determination and hours spent ignoring the heat, the cold, the wind, the rain and the snow, I discovered that you can train yourself to do almost anything - even to run for hours and hours on end. I am at the brink. Only physical collapse can stop me. I know I can meet the mental challenge. I am comfortable with my own company and voyages deep inside my head while outside the hours are passing and the world is turning.

There is a start, there is a finish and in between you just run. That bit in between is where the loneliness resides. No one can do it for you, you are on your own.

synch your iPod with windows media player

2010-09-07T15:54:00.004-03:00

... or how I shunned iTunes.

Apple have done all in their power to render their delicious iPods incompatible with Windows. Hardly surprising when you consider Apple is in direct competition with the Bill Gates empire. The only way to upload media to your iPod, whether it's music, video or spoken word, is by using iTunes.

That statement is as true as Apple would have you believe. In other words test it and you might find an alternative way. I love the silky, sexy iPod but I am not a fan of iTunes. I find the interface clunky and the interference of Apple somewhat intrusive. Quite apart from trying to sell you music, you feel they might be amassing a database of people who download album art from them having acquired the music from some other dubious source. Well, they may be right but that's none of their business.

Google the terms ipod, synch and Windows Media Player and you quickly find there are a number of solutions available to those who have grown to enjoy Windows Media Player and who want to marry it to their new iPod. The easiest method I found was to download a plug-in called from MGTECH. The mysteriously named "dopisp" runs invisibly in the background and allows Windows Media Player to detect your iPod when you plug it in. Hey Presto, you can synch your favourite podcasts, albums and films as well as manage and delete files.

The solution is free to try but costs about $20 to use permanently. I for one am happy to fork out the cash in order to keep my tried and tested method of stuffing an mp3 player.

You'll also need to download Juice, a pod feed retriever. When you've told Juice the address of your favourite streams it will look for them daily and save copies in your preferred Documents or Music folder where they can be automatically monitored by Windows Media Player for new material. Almost seamless really.

iPod nano 16gb

2010-09-06T09:30:00.004-03:00

This is my new iPod Nano. For the past 5 or 6 years I have used a Creative Zen mp3 player which still serves me well but which is heavy and bulky. It's hard to understand how they can make this thing so small, so wafer thin, yet able not only to store music but play films, shoot video clips, record voice memos, act as a calendar, alarm clock and general all-round indispensible gadget. I rather like it.

Since I began running two and a half years ago, I have run without music. This is partly preference because I do like to hear the ambient sounds but partly because my Zen doesn't respond well to the shaking and bouncing of a run as it operates from a traditional hard drive with all the attendant moving, spinning parts.

Apple have announced revised versions of their players and the new Nano will not be much bigger than a postage stamp. One unexpected sneeze and you might never see the device again! This week, before the 5th generation stocks dwindle, I treated myself to the old Nano and a slim neoprene sleeve with a velcro armband.

Yesterday I ran with my new iPod for the first time and it was a nice experience. I ran 16.5 miles which took 2 hours and 43 minutes - long enough to listen to a playlist containing a one hour podcast on Jack the Ripper, 2 albums by "The Music" and a half hour BBC Radio programme, "Just a Minute." Time flew by!

old home week, charlottetown pei

2010-08-28T14:00:00.008-03:00

Mid August is Old Home Week in Prince Edward Island. Charlottetown is bursting at the seams with tourists from the Far East, Europe, The United States and from almost every Province in Canada. So, a good time to showcase all that relates to Maritime family-run farms and rural life. Here are some photos of our day out.

We parked at my father-in-law's apartment and walked to the show ground in blazing sunshine. For several blocks all around people have been renting out parking spaces on their front lawns, driveways and even back yards! $5 seems to be the going rate. Licence plates on glittering automobiles from New York, Tennessee, Georgia and even Florida jostle for position between rusting local Buicks and Mustangs.

We wanted the girls to see the livestock so headed first for the animal sheds. Sheep, goats and chickens held the interest for a while but soon we made for the larger beasts. However the overpowering aroma from the indoor cow and horse enclosures, not to mention the slimy floor, forced us to beat a retreat.

MJ was as busy as ever and we moved between exhibits and shows to keep the peace. Ever the extrovert, she joined the volunteers on stage for a kids' singalong. The others were accompanied by parents but 2 year old MJ shot up the stairs alone and simply looked around for visual clues before joining in the clapping, and dancing. I have photos of her with both feet several inches off the ground!

I retreated to the indoor arena with KR in the stroller to watch a display of horse riding. At 6 months old she was restless and in need of a nap. After that we took in a harness race on the attached Charlottetown Driving Park. I am accustomed to seeing racehorses in full gallop on British courses and at first I couldn't work out what was different about the gait of these horses. Then I realised that although they were moving pretty fast they were using the trot stride pattern. This made them appear to be walking but in fast motion. Odd too to see the driver perched on a tiny ledge behind the horse's bottom, suspended on thin wheels. Somewhat precarious whichever way you look at it!

After a leisurely stroll through the funfare under a baking afternoon sun, mesmerised by the gut-churning aerial rides and the crazy prices, we picked up the car and took two exhausted girls home.

gold cup and saucer parade, charlotte pei

2010-08-24T07:29:00.001-03:00

One of harness racing's most prestigious events in Maritime Canada is the Gold Cup and Saucer held at Charlottetown's driving park. To celebrate and support the occasion roads are closed and a parade winds its way through town. Photos of the Parade are here.

We packed the girls in the car and snaked our way into town along with thousands of others, all optimistic of parking close to the parade's route. Arriving an hour before the start we managed to find a parking spot just a couple of hundred yards from a main road and set off carrying our folding chairs with MJ in tow and KR in the stroller.

By 10am the crowds lining the roads had swelled to 5 or 6 deep and a 10k fun run raced past, with the loudest applause reserved for a 5 year old who brought up the rear after running the distance with his father.

We watched around 100 floats grind slowly by, each one decked in bright colours and advertising a local business or organisation. Groups held giant inflatables, pulling on the guy ropes to lower their charges beneath Charlottetown's overhead power and phone lines.

MJ was pumped up by the sights, the sounds and the activity. She couldn't stop herself rushing into the road to join in the leaping and dancing of the cheerleaders and baton twirlers, or to march with brass bands and bagpipes. She is never a passive observer but wears her heart on her sleeve, pointing, shouting and faking fear as giants and clowns loomed in to view.

KR wriggled and fussed and squirmed in her stroller but eventually fell asleep. Flatbed trucks sounded their air horns making her startle without waking. After 2 hours the parade was over and we joined the rapidly dispersing tide of humanity hurrying for our cars.

orwell corner historic village

2010-08-22T08:00:00.004-03:00

We have had several nice outings this summer and I'll be blogging about more of them soon. I'll start today with our visit to Orwell Corner Hiistoric Village. This is a tiny community preserved as it stood a hundred years ago. The cottages and houses have gone now but the church, hall, school, shop, barns and forge still remain. There were display cases in the village hall housing period pieces like the dental equipment pictured above. There are more photos here.

Everything has been kept just as it was when it was a bustling rural community. The highlights for me were the school and particularly the shop. A huge wood stove dominates the single classroom and a print of Queen Victoria glares down from above the blackboard. Stark reminders of how frosty the lessons would have been. The shop is stocked with original items from a century ago and equipped with ancient scales and cash register.

A creaky stair leads above the shop to a tailor's loft complete with looms, spinning wheels and dummies. The shopkeeper was dressed in Victorian clothes and provided a wealth of information about the village and its way of life.

There was just about enough to interest MJ. She enjoyed the horses and pigs but preferred chasing the ducks around the farmyard. The place was almost deserted despite it being mid August and the height of the Island's tourist season. It was rather nice having the place virtually to ourselves.

young me, now me

2010-07-28T11:09:00.003-03:00

1960

2010

I was squeamish about wearing white socks and sandals but in the interests of recreating a photo of me from 50 years ago I reluctantly pulled them on. Please note, the ridiculous facial expression is deliberate!

saucony progrid stabil cs running shoe

2010-07-25T15:56:00.013-03:00

My arch pain has subsided enough to run and I've been back at it for 3 weeks. For longer runs I realise my exisiting shoes have inadequate cushioning for my needs and are far too flexible. I feel the root of my foot injury has been my low arches combined with over-use and the wrong shoe this year, so I have been looking for alternative shoes with solid arch support. After plenty of research I bought these online from Wiggle in the UK. I'm familiar with the brand and confident about sizing as I run in Saucony shoes.

Construction is solid and build quality excellent. They feel heavy and rigid for a running shoe and make my Saucony ProGrid 8s feel decidedly lightweight. Sole cushioning is deep, firm and comfortable on hard surfaces. The ProGrid Stabils have an internal arch support strap which grips as you tighten the laces and holds the foot in line.

At first I found them a little "clumpy" and was conscious of the extra weight but they are comfortable. Time will tell if they can give the arch support I need. The biggest difference is the medial side of the sole which is flat to the road rather than arched as the following comparison of the right shoes shows.

NEW SHOE (right)

OLD SHOE (right)

This week I have run 3 times - 6 or 7 miles each time and my initial reaction is positive. I still have some arch pain but maybe that will go eventually. For the past 3 weeks back on the road I have been adjusting my gait to compensate for the weak arch and have a number of little niggles as a result. Having run in the new shoes for the first time this week, there is some tenderness on the outside of my left sole where the new foot strike feels different.

Needless to say after such a long lay-off my times are way down and my stamina is poor. None of this is helped by the soaking humidity, daily temperatures in the high 20s and a dose of something a few days ago which put me to bed with nausea for 24 hours and left me with a weak appetite. I'm returning to normal now so hopefully next week will be easier on the muscles, heart and lungs!

heat wave

2010-07-08T14:56:00.005-03:00

Sunrise at 5:30am casts long sharp shadows heralding another day of blistering temperatures. By early afternoon it's 29c with a stifling hot breeze, yet we are cooler than much of the rest of Canada. In central parts the "humidex" (I'm sure we didn't have that when I was small) is 43c.

This is rather nice for someone like me who enjoys both hot and cold weather. However the heat and humidity sap energy, not useful when you are returning to running after an 8 week injury break. There is still an ache in my foot but nothing like the previous severe pain. At the end of yesterday's 5 mile run I was footsore, heat-exhausted and somewhat dehydrated.

This morning the foot twinged when I first walked but eased up later. The latest setback has been lower back pain so nasty that you would laugh to see me attempt to regain the perpendicular from a sitting or lying position. I reckon my gait is compensating for the foot injury and putting unexpected muscle strain on my back.

I have ordered some new running shoes with high tech "motion control" features that support the arches and guide the foot securely from heel to toe. I am keen for them to arrive soon as I have high hopes for them.

the injured foot

2010-06-16T09:32:00.008-03:00

A heavy running schedule for April and May have taken their toll. My last run was 5 weeks ago - 11 miles on the Confederation Trail. Pain set in on the top of my foot so severely that I couldn't put my full weight on the left foot. I self-diagnosed Extensor Tendinitis as the likely cause and tried ice, ibuprofen gel and rest. Additionally I used the TENS machine (Trans-Cutaneous Electronic Nerve Stimulation) that I originally bought a decade ago for relief from fibromyalgia.

Tendons have a limited blood supply so are notoriously slow to heal. TENS stimulates muscle and tendon at the cellular level and is thought to release pain relieving agents as well as to encourage growth; icing tricks the body into survival mode and it delivers extra blood to the cold area; rest avoids worsening the damage of course.

After a week the pain began to ease but running was out of the question and I began to get fidgety from the lack of exercise. Michelle reminded me that the community sports centre in Stratford offers free gym facilities. We took the kids there one Friday morning for the pre-school playgroup (also free, including refreshments) and I slipped upstairs to investigate the exercise equipment.

There are 2 running/walking lanes around the perimeter and a rank of about a dozen instruments of torture, mostly weights. However my eye was caught by 2 ellipticals and 2 bikes. Having arrived suitably attired, I leapt aboard an elliptical and began "running" without the impact or the foot tension. The cardio-vascular workout was exciting and I felt relieved that here was a way to maintain my fitness for the time being. Since then I have used the elliptical and the bike daily, pushing my heart rate to 150bpm and burning over 700 calories in an hour.

It has become a ritual to pull on my sports gear, take my mp3 player and drive the 15 minutes to Stratford. I have come to recognise the regular faces, the old and the young, the slow walkers and the fast runners, the weight crunchers and the lazy cyclists, the flabby and the toned! I set my mp3 player to random and work hard until salty sweat is stinging my eyes and dripping from my chin. I have the windows down on the drive home looking forward to a deep, hot bath.

I can walk without too much discomfort for most of the day now but I can't run yet. I have tried an occasional quick mile around the gym track and the pain returns, so for the next few weeks at least, I will have to release my endorphins on the elliptical!

music unpacked

2010-05-19T09:50:00.005-03:00

This is my second CD carousel. I sold the first when I returned briefly to the UK in 2008. Since then my CDs have been boxed up in storage and the time was now right to open the boxes and get them all out. So, here they are on discreet display. The revolving shelf alone weighs over 100 pounds and moves slowly but smoothly to give access to all 4 sides.

Its great to have my entire collection at my fingertips and I'm revisiting a lot of music both from the last few years and from long ago. My CD player and amplifier hide behind glass below the TV from where they also perform DVD duty. The armchair is strategically positioned between the shelf and the electronics so that I can plug in my headphones without stretching the lead uncomfortably.

My DVDs are all out on show now too. There is a nice mixture of Films, TV Drama and classic comedy. As we don't subscribe to cable or satellite, DVD viewing is almost nightly entertainment. I order British TV box sets from Amazon UK who neatly reduce the price for overseas orders to cancel VAT (British sales tax). That way if I get stung for import duty here in Canada at least I am not paying the tax twice!

headphones

2010-05-08T19:39:00.004-03:00

I like to hear every last detail in the music I listen to. I certainly want to hear the most sophisticated sound my budget will permit. I don’t think that quite qualifies me as an audiophile but it does mean I research equipment carefully before investing.

I play CDs on a NAD 541i or Cambridge Audio DVD89 player through a NAD C350 amplifier powering Bowers & Wilkins DM601 speakers. The sound is mighty impressive, clear and able to go unbelievably loud. I like to listen loud and immerse myself in the music. That was fine in my house but somewhat inappropriate for a small apartment.

I haven’t listened to music “properly” for over eighteen months. Most of my CD collection is still in storage but that is about to change. I have ordered shelving to house a lifetime's collection of CDs and DVDs and some serious listening will soon ensue. After several days reading reviews and comparing prices I opted for a pair of Beyer DT770 Pro headphones. I scoured the globe for the best prices, yet remarkably found the best deal in a local professional music showroom only 5 minutes from home.

I’d like to describe the aural pleasure these headphones supply but I can’t do it justice. Suffice to say they breathe new life into music. For the technically minded: the dynamic range is 5Hz to 35,000Hz, meaning they reveal the deepest rumbles and the highest squeaks! Source material CDs sound rich and full while even mp3 files with average compression leap out of the laptop to be taken notice of. These are “closed-back” headphones which isolate the listener from ambient sounds and prevent leakage of music even to someone sat beside you; excellent for apartment living with two small children.

Six years ago I bought a pair of Sennheiser HD590 headphones. They brought my CD collection to life, in a slightly less private way. They are open-backed which the purists say is far better; more like listening in the real world. The dynamic range of the Sennheisers is 12Hz to 38,000 Hz but the difference from the Beyers is not noticeable. The big difference is that people in the same room get treated to your music and you can hear ambient sounds clearly. Both pairs reproduce music faithfully and with the intricate detail I love. On balance I prefer the isolation of the closed-back Beyers.

after the slaughter of mary jane kelly

2010-05-01T13:30:00.002-03:00

Whitechapel 9th November 1888

The empty, broken corpse of an Irish rose lies on grey sheets drenched in her own blood. The radiant beauty of her youth hacked away leaving in its place a faceless carcase, butchered beyond recognition. Exhausted and stripped to the waist, he stands and looks at this carnage in a detached way. The embers of his open fire still light the full horror of his rage. He picks his great coat from the floor then rolls two knives in a rag and stows them in a pocket. He tosses his crimson shirt on the fire and stokes the coals. Sweat runs on his face but he pulls on the coat, covering his slick body and slips noiselessly into the night.

He takes care, turns up his sticky collar. Even at this witching hour Londoners are still about their business. Pools of yellow illuminate street corners but the narrow lanes are black and safe. Head down, he passes a group of lurching revellers. Moving south from Whitechapel Road he mixes with the first dockers but turns east at Wapping. He runs through dark alleys in the shadows fleeing the devastation his hands have wrought. After a mile he slows his pace and stops to lean on a wall. The fury is waning and he feels sick as usual. Soon he will put great distance between himself and the Inspector’s inquiries but first he must sleep.

---

Morning brings a cold grey mist which settles over the hulking iron steamers in St Katherine’s Dock. Already emigrant passengers are filing nervously over the gangway, shifting heavy cases from one hand to the other. Amid the clangs and shouts a tall man passes onto the upper deck, almost unremarkable save for a streak of blood behind his ear. He sits and looks back at the City, a small case on his knee.

How easy to tie a sack of rocks to his ankle and jump from Westminster Bridge in the night, to sink beneath the icy brown Thames and end this killing. But his wretched cowardice had spurned that solution long ago. Nausea rises in his throat as he remembers her whimpering pleas for mercy. As he sliced she had sobbed but never screamed. That had scared him.

A shudder in the ship's timbers tells him the steamer is moving. As she turns in the basin her deep horn bellows over the East End. The echoes cannon off warehouses and ring across the open water, yet even as they subside his keen senses catch the shrill persistence of a Metropolitan police whistle announcing a dread discovery. Too late now he smirks, in two weeks he will be another unknown strolling through New York with two knives in his pocket.

an irish rose

2010-04-19T20:52:00.002-03:00

He awoke to a pale late afternoon light filtering through his small grey window. Still clothed in a dirty coat and coarse trousers he sat up on the bare mattress. The rotten window frame was soft as cork and the glass rattled as he opened it. A cool breeze wafted in and stirred the evil stench of his bolt-hole.

Standing he stretched his stiff muscles. Then his bloodshot eyes turned to the table with its plate and half a stale loaf. Sitting on a hard chair he scraped it closer and lit a stub of candle. His unwashed hands tore off a wad of bread. As he chewed his hand trembled.

From the street below came the strains of a sweet sung melody. Instinctively he smiled but the smile turned to a frown as he thought of his whoring mother. Her brown teeth had showed when she sang. The siren voice trailed off having no doubt attracted it’s prey. He didn’t bother to get up and look.

He lay on the damp bed and dozed again...

Somewhere a woman screamed and a dog began deep incessant barks. His hand dropped to the floor and felt under the bed. He withdrew a long knife that gleamed dimly in the flickering candlelight. From his coat pocket he retrieved a spent match and began whittling it with the knife.

Drawing the blade slowly away from him in gentle strokes he watched the curled white strips fall. Satisfied with his work he used the pick to remove bread from between his teeth. After this he used the same implement to absently prise brown traces from under his grey nails. Traces of human blood...

His ears pricked up alert when the familiar Irish voice set up its syrupy sweet singing once more. The soft tones lilted in the quiet of late evening. Slowly he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He placed the tooth pick on the empty plate, snuffed the guttering candle and slipped the knife in his pocket...

catherine eddowes

2010-03-24T20:01:00.003-03:00

30th September 1888

In flickering amber gaslight she leaned against the outer wall of Bishopsgate Police Station, feeling the London brick cold and hard. She was still tipsy despite a long evening in the cells. Fingering her petticoat pocket she remembered the Slops had at least returned her possessions. “Goodnight old cocker,” she murmured again and smiled. Buttons wouldn’t pay for a bed though. She set off towards Aldgate.

Cheap lodging-house beds had bent Kate’s back and hop-field summers had creased her face, yet still she turned heads in Whitechapel. Tanned street traders saw her slight figure and soft hazel eyes, and thought of their fat, unwashed wives. They noticed her auburn hair, washed daily in hand soap, spilling from under her faded bonnet. In a city of ugliness she was pretty.

Black boots clicked on clean cobbles behind her. The cool night breeze revived her senses. Death lurked in these alleys, death by steel. The long shadows of Mitre Square ahead offered an opportunity to hide and draw breath. Kate hitched her skirt and ran into the dark of the square. She crouched and watched her pursuer. He would hear her stifled panting for sure. She gulped back a sob and pressed her slim frame into the angle of two walls. His heels clicked louder as he headed straight for her hiding place. She threw back her head and screamed in silent terror as the flashing blade sliced through her throat. Virtually decapitated by the single ferocious swing, she sucked and blew though the gaping wound until blood loss brought blessed unconsciousness.

Kneeling, he worked swiftly, slicing and scraping at the blanched face. He hoisted her tattered skirts and stooped close, drawing his blade deftly from her chest to her sex. He punched his knife in, mutilating the sanctum of life. Intestines slithered out in grey coils. He gathered them and flung them beside the whore’s head. He looked briefly away over his shoulder, retching at the hot stink. A black pool bloomed around her in a fearful halo.

Frantically he drove his fists into the cavity, searching and squeezing. He withdrew a kidney, like a ripe plum. Thrusting the organ into his pocket he rose to his feet, gasping lungfuls of cold London smog. Laughter echoed from the street beyond and he knew his time was short. He stepped over the lifeless remains and stooped to recover a long pin from her hair. He rammed it through the back of his own left hand and growled in agony. Grimacing in the dark he reminded himself the penalty for delivering pain was to receive it. Eddowes’ eyes stared blankly at the night sky. Her soft entrails, warm and pink glistened on the dirt, giving off tiny tendrils of steam.

By the quiet he judged the hour to be after 1am but suspicious eyes might glint behind every window so, walking just below a trot he put distance between himself and his savagery. Doubling back towards the East he reached the darkest lanes of all then ran hard and fast. His heart thumped loudly as he dropped to his knees in the blackness. Nausea welled in his throat and he vomited hot bile into the gutter. With the floodgates now open, he spewed the contents of his guts in short, lurching grunts until his muscles were on fire with pain.

Long, rattling strands blew from his dry lips and he tasted the bitterness of gin. This afternoon he had poured half a pint down his neck and more into the Eddowes woman. Next time he would do unspeakable things to the whore, whoever she may be...

time marches on

2010-03-14T11:39:00.005-03:00

We turned our clocks forward one hour this weekend. More daylight in the evenings will be nice but it's a reminder that another year is well under way. They say as you get older time seems to pass more quickly and I wouldn't argue with that. The Vernal Equinox is less than a week away, marking the shrinking of our nights and the stretching of our days.

I am matching the pace with projects and hobbies. In the past three months I have ticked off all the niggling "to-do" items in this small space and fiddled with stamp and coin collections. You expect to concentrate on indoor pursuits at this time of year but this winter has so far been the mildest in Atlantic Canada for 48 years. There have been days of frigid low temperatures and a couple of decent snowstorms but on balance the outdoors has been quite inviting. I have been able to maintain my running and am already wondering how soon I can wheel out my bike.

Our expanded family has brought broken nights, so interesting new routines have developed. Michelle feeds Kathleen during the night and I get up with Maisie around 6am. Most mornings lately I pack Maisie into the car after breakfast and spend a couple of hours around town visiting such exciting places as the supermarket and the library, the Mall and Wal-Mart!

Despite the lukewarm sun, patches of snow are clinging on and the trees remain a bundle of grey sticks. But time will change that. In a few weeks time buds will appear and soon after the trees will be swaying canopies of lush green and daffodils will make their belated appearance.

For a while longer though, I want to enjoy the crisp cold air, the dazzling blue sky and the deceptive low sun. Today I will be pulling on my new running shoes and heading for a round-trip run to Victoria Park.

after midnight the evening before

2010-03-10T20:06:00.003-04:00

The road glistened with horse manure. Liz began picking a path across with the care of one who values their boots highly. Her guardian angel himself had complimented her on them. He had left after treating her to black grapes but she had arranged to meet him again tomorrow. His calm demeanour made him irresistible.

Packer the greengrocer had mentioned he thought Liz and the tall man were a couple. They could so easily be, they seemed matched in many ways. She had wasted the best years of her life with a man whom she hated and feared. Could this be the chance she deserved, the chance to burst from the drudgery of cleaning and sewing for people barely better then herself?

Kidney watched from a dark entrance in the shadows of Dutfield’s Yard. His Liz with a tall man. The veins in his neck stood out like ropes as his temper rose. The whore’s last chance was gone. As she walked softly past, he sprang from his lair and wrenched her to the ground, one crusty hand clamped over her mouth like a lid. Singing swelled from the Jewish Socialist Club and he gripped her throat with both hands, closing her windpipe. She struggled for hardly a minute then fell limp. He pulled the knife from his belt and in one savage slice, virtually severed her head from her shoulders.

Almost instantly a door opened behind him. He threw himself out of the passage and onto Berner Street, careering away from the dead woman who had cooked his meals. He sprinted north in the gloom. When he reached Commercial Road he stopped, gasping. A cart rumbled by. Kidney turned and saw the driver swing directly into Dutfields Yard. Now he ran like the wind.

later the evening before

2010-02-21T12:40:00.002-04:00

She looked left and right, turned on the spot and looked behind her but nothing, he was gone. As quickly as her saviour had appeared, he had vanished. Pity, she thought, he had looked better than the usual Whitechapel sort, he probably had money too.

Liz Stride shrugged philosophically and set off south on Berner Street for the docks. Immediately a hand gripped her shoulder. Swinging around to face her accoster, she was ready to kick hard and run. A decade of bad experiences had sharpened her wits. But she peered up into a familiar face.

“It’s you again,” she remarked. “Are you following me?”

“No!” Laughed the stranger. “I’m worried for your safety. Here, come inside and eat fruit with me.” He indicated the greengrocer’s door, dimly lit from within by lamplight. “Packer sells quite exceptional grapes.”

The doorbell dinged sharply as Liz entered and the tall man winced, looking both ways along the street before following.

the evening before

2010-02-11T12:04:00.004-04:00

August cooked the East End streets at mid day bringing labourers and market traders to the alehouses for refreshment. A different clientele emerged from the shadows as the late summer evenings shortened and an ominous coolness descended. Tall hats, sailors' caps and high collars, grubby aprons and furtive glances lent Whitechapel a dramatic air. Those who made their living preying on the lost and the lonely flowed in and out of public houses, loitered in archways and slipped barely noticed through lodging house doorways.

In the George the Fourth a tall woman stood over an empty gin glass, sliding two bright pennies on the wet bar. She didn't have the price of a bed tonight and she was still sober. The door swung and a crippled woman lurched in, trailing her club foot. She squinted around in the lamplight then banged out into the gloom. Almost immediately three men crashed in shouting and barging each other with the earnest voices of the drunk.

Liz Stride hawked and spat on the floor. She stowed the coppers in her pocket and pulled her cardigan over her thin shoulders. One of the drunks swayed at her as she passed and she side-stepped him but he turned and grabbed her hand, grunting and leering at her through slit red eyes. His friends slammed their mugs on the bar and crowded round, jeering and mocking. Liz Stride was in trouble.

The door opened slowly and a low voice snarled, “Leave her alone.”

Liz turned to see a tall figure blocking the doorway. In a second he was right beside her pushing the drunk roughly into his mates. The whole trio lost balance, sprawling in the sawdust. She locked onto the stranger’s arm and steered him out onto the street. This life was a game she played by instinct.

Kathleen Rose

2010-02-08T18:08:00.006-04:00

Kathleen Rose joined the world on 6th Feb 2010 weighing in at 7lb 11oz. She's a slight, dainty little baby and seems extremely small compared with her sister. I can't really say yet which of us she resembles but I did catch a glimpse of my paternal grandfather.

She has a calm demeanour and a gentle little cry, all very different from Maisie. We were prepared for Maisie to explode with anger at Kathleen's appearance but she has accepted the baby's presence with surprising grace. In fact she seems slightly nervous of her, as if aware of her fragility.

I haven't made a secret of hoping for a boy but I am very happy indeed with Kathleen! She's a miniature gem.

the day after

2010-01-26T21:36:00.008-04:00

He blends with the London brick, grimy and rough by gaslight. Striding along Flower and Dean, barging shoulders with night people, his head buzzes with gin. Two half crowns and a florin chink solidly in his trouser pocket. This morning down by Embankment he had threatened to slice a man's head off for those.

A pale face leers closely into his, a foul-smelling witch. He pushes her away hard, slamming her into a doorway. Her head smacks off the hard cobbles and he is dimly aware of shouts of protest coming from above. Even at this late hour there is an audience hanging from high windows and ledges. The woman was lucky if she but knew it.

Drunkenness is his crutch. It holds reality at bay. Rounding the corner into Brick Lane he lurches into the road. A horse-drawn cab is clipping toward him at a canter. The driver shouts a warning and he trips in the gutter, falling face-first into the evil-smelling waste of London's wretched poor. The cab clatters past. He lies there for a long time. A cold wind sweeps the clouds apart and a full moon floats high...

... by dawn he is lying numb in Thames mud by Wapping. Invisible barges honk in the fog and the rising tide washes blood and clay from his boots. As he stirs he begins to shake. Snatches of a dream come back, a willing whore, his strong hands, a soft neck, power, steel and stillness.

The frigid Thames hits his face. He gets unsteadily to his feet and stumbles from the sucking river clay. In twenty minutes he will be thawing over gin in familiar territory. He feels the coins in his pocket.

the coin collector

2009-12-18T13:37:00.010-04:00

Long ago I collected coins, pre-decimal coins. Nothing spectacular, no Victorian Sovereigns or Edwardian Guineas, just plain circulating, well-worn coins of the mid 20th century. During a recent rummage through my suitcase of mementos I uneartherd the box of coins and felt a desire to examine and catalogue them.

A couple of hours inventory work revealed:
394 British coins (including 120 1967 Pennies and 60 1967 Halfpennies)
37 American coins
34 Canadian coins
93 foreign coins

How do you catalogue coins the Virgo way? It's not quick, it takes several days! You start by very lightly rinsing them in warm soapy water then drying them. Next you place them in batches into the scanner and scan large hi-definition images into the laptop, first the heads then flip them over and record the tails. The next job is to change the file names to reflect the monarch, date and denomination of each scan. Finally you open each file in Photoshop and rotate the image so it is perfectly level.

In the spirit of completeness for my British coins I drew a spreadsheet incorporating the Monarchs from Victoria onwards and all the monetary denominations circulated. It quickly became apparent that I could fill nearly half the spaces in the spreadsheet from my existing treasure chest.

A few days eBay work later and I am now awaiting 49 coins in the mail from a variety of sources, which will complete my collection of all denominations from all reigns of the last 170 years. Coins and stamps (another interest I rekindled earlier this year) sit well together. The one being tendered in Post Offices to purchase the other.

Silver has become quite valuable in these economically depressed times so the intrinsic value has been boosting the sentimental value of older coins. For example, an 1890 Victorian Crown in uncirculated condition will set you back £50. I acquired a worn but still beautiful one for £12. However, this needn't be a hobby solely for the rich. The majority of my new acquisitions have cost just a pound or two each.

This is all somewhat time consuming (and probably a touch anal) but I have ended up with a rather easier way to view and enjoy my coins. I can look at dinner-plate sized images of sixpences and see tremendous detail that my old naked eyes would never see.

It's quite alarming in these days of tarnished cupro-nickel to think a century ago peoples' pockets jingled with high-grade silver and even gold coins. Our passage into the modern era can be exemplified by how coins have lost their precious metal value, shrunk and become wafer-thin, with simple, bland designs. I have a small bag of modern Euros but they are downright ugly lumps of cheap metal. They pale compared with the silver of my George V Half Crown above or the gentle brass of my Victorian penny below.

changes are afoot

2009-12-04T11:57:00.008-04:00

4 addreses in 3 years. Hmm, not my usual style. This latest move has been partly to flee an Albanian hostel (description of former abode) and partly to acquire much more usable living space, better storage, a nicer building and a quieter, more pedestrian-friendly area.

Mail is already being safely redirected to the new address. I am rebuilding (and enlarging) the stamp collection I sold in the 80s and components have arrived from far flung regions:

ENGLAND
Scunthorpe: 2 stockbooks of 5,000 stamps.
Leicester: 'Stamp Organiser' software.
Romsey: Miniature Sheets, Twopenny Blues
Salisbury: Miniature Sheets
Hornchurch: Miniature Sheets
Amesbury: Miniature Sheets
London, Royal Mail Philately Shop: Stamps, Miniature Sheets

USA
Woodland Hills, California: Small mint stamp collection
Duchesne, Utah: Jeweller's loupe
Owing Mills, Maryland: Penny Black

CANADA
Barrie, Ontario - Boscastle Stamps: 2 Padded leather stockbooks
Farnham, Quebec - Arpin Philately: Tongs, hinges, glassine envelopes
Kingston, Nova Scotia: Penny Reds

Thanks to the Internet you no longer need to be in England to collect British Stamps. This winter I will sit down with tongs, loupe and scrubbed hands and set about a big cataloguing project. My kind of winter!

******

There is more afoot, my feet have changed shape. I look down and see muscles on my toes, instep and ankle which were never there before. I often complain about tender feet and ankles from running and now I can see why. Rather odd - they don't look like feet I recognise.

the stamp collector

2009-11-09T20:32:00.012-04:00

I was a stamp collector. My collection was certainly no family heirloom but was still of great value to me since I had built it up at a time when we were struggling financially. I collected mint British stamps starting from the Coronation of Elizabeth 2nd, and also accumulated a fair quantity of used examples of Victorian, Edwardian and Georgian stamps. The 1d red above is a photo taken in 1976 from one of my original albums.

The main Post Office in Bournemouth used to have a philatelic counter run by a man who was himself a collector. He neatly tore off strips, blocks and singles, then transferred them to little clear envelopes with some deft tweezer work. I would queue there four or five times each year to buy the latest commemorative sets. There were also several stamp shops in town and all sold bags stuffed with used stamps still stuck to the corners of envelopes. These were a cheap but worthwhile investment often producing unexpected gems. Ah those Saturday mornings spent soaking the stamps off!

In about 1982 I sold my stamp collection. It was a case of necessity but the £50 I made wasn't even close to the face value of the stamps, never mind their catalogue or sentimental value. I always regretted that move, especially since, within a few years, I could have managed comfortably without the proceeds.

Now, 26 years later, I have decided to atone for my mistake. The philatelic counter in Bournemouth (if it still exists) is now 3,500 miles away so I must use some imagination to reassemble things here in Canada. The electronic era has ushered in a new style of stamp collecting. An abundance of web sites sell individual stamps, sets, whole collections, albums and accessories. A few keystrokes have revealed whole albums and stock books which haven't increased hugely since my 1980's sale. I think I can replace my stamps and indeed improve upon the collection for only a couple of hundred pounds. EBay has proved to be a goldmine, full of collections for sale following the deaths of ageing uncles.

Luckily the market is not as buoyant as I expected. Collectors with spare cash have perhaps dropped away in the recession. The odd thing is, I am ordering and bidding on collections of British stamps being sold in Canada and the United States. There must have been plenty of immigrant uncles! Ironically, the heaviest cost is for postage to Prince Edward Island! An album posted here from, let's say Los Angeles, costs about £30. I wonder what my ancestors would have made of such an outrageous waste of what would have been two years' earnings in Victorian times?

I have equipped myself with tweezers, magnifying glass, hinges and a Stanley Gibbons catalogue and set up a few auctions to watch on eBay. Now I'll be watching out for the postman for the next few days!

Everest: an unhealthy obsession

2009-11-06T13:59:00.007-04:00

The route to the summit is glaringly obvious from this angle: follow the path of steep ice which flows relentlessly from the interior of the 3 giant peaks, Everest, Lhotse and Nuptse; shin up a steep ice wall and take a left turn where it's a mere hop and a skip to the top of the world. By all accounts Everest is not a technically difficult mountain to climb. An ambitious novice with excellent fitness, a steely nerve for heights and a huge bank balance can have a fair stab at it.

Armchair enthusiasts are developing high expectations, fostered by the latest high definition TV documentaries in which a cosmopolitan range of middle-aged adventurers reach for the sky and send video messages home to loved ones. True, today's synthetic materials have previously unimagined thermal qualities and mountaineering equipment is now stronger yet lighter than ever but it is money that is at the heart of the problem with Everest. Elite Guiding Companys all but promise to get you safely to the summit (and back) for a barely credible fee of $70,000, per client.

Bottled oxygen has become standard issue above 23,000 feet, an altitude above which the natural atmosphere does not sustain human life for more than a couple of days. A seemingly inexhaustible supply of altitude-adjusted Sherpas are keen to enlist as expeditionary guides and porters, at $2,000 earning ten times more than their farming income. The Nepalese Government long ago spotted the financial advantage of charging ludicrous sums for permits to climb the country's greatest asset.

Put simply, commercial pressures are putting too many people on the mountain, many of whom would never make it there on merit. These figures tell a story of rapid acceleration:

One might deduce that the mountain is becoming safer to climb but these statistics by decade are masking years when fatalities ran at higher percentages. A combination of weather and over-crowding in 1996 resulted in 15 deaths in a year when 98 people reached the summit and considerably fewer returned.

Despite the increasingly friendly statistics, this is no hike. Some people suffer the ravages of altitude sickness even before the real climb has begun. Base Camp is at 17,000 feet above sea level (already comfortably 20% higher than the highest Alpine peak, Mont Blanc. As you climb toward the Troposphere, pulmonary and cerebral edemas occur frequently even among apparently fit people as bodies stop working in this hostile realm. Helicopters can barely stay aloft in the thin air of Base Camp so evacuations high on the mountain are simply not possible. If you get sick then your companions are unlikely to be strong enough to carry you down to safety. You will be abandoned to your fate and join the corpses of those who lie where they fell, frozen hard as ice. That is the code which has developed although it is one over which bitter debate rages.

Base camp, a collection of tents not visible from the high altitude photo above, lies at the bottom right corner of this view, just below the Khumbu Ice Fall. The classically climbed route involves negotiating more than a mile of Khumbu's 5-storey high-ice-boulders and sickeningly deep crevasses before ascending the Western Cwm to the Lhotse Face - a 30 degree sheet of hard blue ice. After spending a night under canvas on a ledge halfway up this nightmarish slope you continue to a barren, windswept saddle slung between Lhotse and Everest, known as the South Col. A few hours sleep there and you have to choose whether to try for the summit or return to base.

Those who feel well enough to attempt the summit will strap on oxygen masks and draw several breaths for each step as they climb ever higher, then traverse nauseating knife-edge ridges with a choice of sheer drops into Tibet or Nepal, until they reach that crest where there is nowhere higher to climb. I salute those brave souls and I fear for them.

Websites now regularly report dangerous overcrowding in horrendous places like the Lhotse Face, the Balcony and the Hilary Step. Pedestrian bottlenecks at the same altitude as cruising airliners, are jeopardising the lives of ambitious but ordinary people. It is just possible to climb from final camp (The South Col) to the summit and back in the hours of daylight if all goes well. But the sudden onset of hurricane force winds with thick snow and bone-chilling temperatures and the ever-present threat of avalanches can thwart even the best-lead expeditions. Now imagine queues forming as dozens of light-headed, oxygen-starved climbers wait their turn to clip onto fixed lines, to slowly plod their way through knee-deep snow in the "death zone," to climb their personal Everest.

Now remember among these are often men and women with little or no experience, suffering hallucinations and at the very limits of their endurance. Yes... Everest is dangerously over-crowded.

Veho Muvi micro dv camcorder

2009-11-03T09:42:00.004-04:00

I couldn't obtain this little rascal online in Canada and neither Amazon USA nor its resellers will ship the product outside the USA. I ended up ordering it from Amazon UK for delivery in the UK (as per their rules for electronics). My sister kindly repackaged it and forwarded it to me in Canada. So here it is, the latest in miniature digital video camcorders delivered to my door in a roundabout way!

I took the "Extreme Sports Pack" too, as it seemed to offer a good range of mounts and straps to secure the camera to almost anywhere. First impressions are good. It feels solid and surprisingly weighty for its startlingly small size. I also bought a Class 6 Micro SD Card as I hear that the basic cards don't write data as smoothly, resulting in some reported jerkiness on playback. The card is so tiny it would be easily lost or blow away in a light breeze.

The 3 operating buttons are obvious and seem robust and there is a simple warning light system to indicate what the little devil is up to.

The Extreme Sports Pack duplicates the lanyard, pouch and crocodile clip provided with the main unit. Initially I found the tangle of straps, Velcro and plastic somewhat mystifying as there are no instructions. The thing I thought was a jockstrap is actually an armband and the various clips and Velcro bands are almost impossible to identify from the miniscule illustrations on the back of the box. I investigated online and found names for the parts, or at least descriptions.

The pack is worth having and you can probably cobble the bits together anyway you want to suit your peculiar needs. I plan to use the straps to secure the device to my cycle helmet and the armband to film my runs. The crocodile clip will attach the camera to my lapel or backpack strap for discreet filming in the library or wherever! A very useful item is the swivelling metal bracket which I discover is magnetic so you might temporarily fit the camera somewhere in a room for some candid scenes.

Perhaps I'll clip the camera over my rear view mirror and go for a drive around town now.

walking with a shadow

2009-10-11T12:31:00.002-03:00

Shadowman took an early morning walk with the shadow stroller. There are more views here.

pictures from an island

2009-09-07T10:01:00.003-03:00

You don't see these every day.

Electricity is really safe here... honestly!

I have posted a few more views around P.E.I. here.

summer rides

2009-08-26T09:24:00.006-03:00

Click here for some more island views as seen from my bike cockpit.

Running is hard on the joints so I turned to cycling for exercise. I have now found cycling is hard on the neck and the thighs! I am hoping that my legs will get used to pedalling for 3 hours or more and that my muscles will rise to the task.

When you ride long distances you have to eat and drink to maintain your energy. I take a peanut butter and jam sandwich plus 2 half-litre drinks bottles, one of water and one of juice. Some people advocate much more than this but I think it's a personal thing. I only eat if I am riding for more than 40 miles and I only start drinking when I have done at least 10 miles. Any more than this and I feel bloated. However, there is a fine line between too much and too little and only practice reveals what feels right.

In my back pockets I carry a mobile phone, sandwich, lip-balm and sometimes a printed page for a new route. Sometimes I take my compact camera on longer rides. For emergencies I have a small seat bag which holds a multi-tool, punct*re repair kit, tyre levers, spare inner tube, spare gear/brake cables and a 20 dollar bill. On the bike I have a mini-pump. Hopefully I can cope with most minor eventualities even 50 miles from home.

The shoulder is good or adequate for cycling in most places. When I plan a route it is a compromise between quiet roads for solitude and scenery, and major roads for better road surfaces and a wider shoulder. I have also discovered that minor roads tend to have much steeper gradients becasue they don't have to cater for big trucks.

The Island is swept by strong winds which seem to gust and shift direction. Accordingly even my circular rides are often into a stiff headwind the whole way!

The crankset on my Raleigh Quadra is a racing double. 52-42 chain rings and a rear cassette range of 24-13. My lowest gear is a real grind on the 10% hills but so far I haven't got off to push. Top gear is pretty high and only comes into play on a downhill slope with a tailwind.

I am planning an overhaul of the Raleigh. It is over 20 years old and the components are original. The rear wheel spokes have lost tension on the drive side and the wheel and bottom bracket bearings are worn. I have 2 new Shimano wheels on order from the USA. The new rear will accomodate up to 10 speed cassettes so future gear upgrading will be possible. I also have a new 7 speed cassette coming, with a 26-13 range plus a new chain.

I reckon these replacements, plus disassembling and regreasing the bottom bracket will inject new life into the bike. The frame is Reynolds 531 steel tubing and the components mostly Shimano 105 so it is worth maintaining. In due course I would like to buy a new carbon-framed bike with all the modern gears and features. The Raleigh Quadra can be partly retired.

My research shows that bikes in Canada are roughly twice the price of comparable models in England. This must be partly because cycling is considerably less popular than in Europe or the States and also has much do with the logistics and distribution costs across this vast country.

Most UK online cycle and parts suppliers will deliver overseas. They also quote prices without VAT which is sensible because Canadian authorities will apply import duty. I think I might treat myself.

the long cycle ride

2009-08-12T09:38:00.012-03:00

Yesterday I completed my first 100 mile ride. To be accurate - 106.5 miles in 7 hours, 31 minutes at an average speed of 14.1 mph. I rode my Raleigh Quadra, a 1980s steel road bike from Raleigh's Special Products Division.

I plotted the ride on http://www.mapmyride.com/ to use mostly country roads in a roughly triangular loop taking in the Eastern quarter of Prince Edward Island. Having started cycling again at age 51 last year and in recent weeks ridden 30, 40 and 50 mile loops, I felt ready for the challenge.

I set off under grey skies but with a decent weather forecast. Sustenance would be 3 peanut butter and jam sandwiches and an energy gel stowed in my pockets. One drinks bottle I filled with a mix of water and pure orange juice, the other with water. In my seat pack I carried a spare tube, puncture repair kit, tyre levers, a multi-tool, zip ties and spare gear/brake cables. There was room in my pockets for a lip balm, cell phone and printed route map. (I am still getting to know the Island roads after 2 years here.)

P.E.I. is windy and hilly. Country roads carry the fewest trucks but for that very reason have steeper gradients. At times I ground up countless tall slopes like the one above, reaching the top gasping for oxygen and thighs burning. For the first quarter of the ride I had a tailwind which helped keep my average above 16mph. This was the easiest part of the day. After that I changed direction and had a strong crosswind in my face. I began to eat my sandwiches on the move and washed them down with juice and water, rationing it until I found a re-filling point.

Canadian roads are attacked by snow, ice, heavy rain and sun. The resulting potholes and the annual summer round of filling them in makes for distinctly variable road surfaces! I kept a watchful eye on the road ahead, threading my way between old and new surfaces. The sun appeared after 50 miles, still high and burning in August at this latitude. The middle third was a tough 3 hours into a strong headwind and I seldom exceeded 12mph.

My route was entirely on two-way roads and thankfully the trucks which passed me gave me a generously wide berth. Not long after I left the port on the southern tip of the Island, the ferry from Nova Scotia disgorged and a fleet of a dozen mammoths of the road thundered by me. The first had considerately given a long warning blast on his horn a good 20 seconds before passing.

After 75 miles I reached civilisation and unclipped for the one and only time at a Tourist Information office. I refilled my bottles there, letting the taps run until the water flowed deliciously cold. As I turned full circle for the final third of the ride I thanked the crosswind which now blew over my right shoulder. The sun was hot, my legs were spent and I ground out the final 30 miles on willpower. Every shift of position on the bars revealed new pains in my upper arms and neck. This is the hardest physical thing I have ever done.

By the time I reached home I was suffering from slight dehydration. I shivered even as I soaked in a warm bath. I should have taken on more water earlier and I needed more food. Next time (if there is a next time!) I will know what to expect. After a huge meal and a sound night's sleep I feel good this morning, better than I expected. Stiff in the upper arms, thighs and neck but otherwise human!

camping in Algonquin National Park, Ontario

2009-07-27T20:06:00.008-03:00

We drove a 2,000 mile round trip to camp in Algonquin Park, Ontario. There are closer options of course but this gave us the chance to explore potential destinations for a possible permanent move off Prince Edward Island. With Maisie in the car we had to split the drive over 2 days, stopping over in hotels close to Quebec City both ways. Here are a selection of photos from the week.

We booked our pitch weeks in advance as spaces were already running out, so it was disappointing to find ourselves on a sloping noisy spot within sight of the road. Luckily the office was able to move us to a nice level site away from the road. For future reference, what's the point in booking a place when you can walk in and choose from some very nice non-reservable sites even in mid July?

The tent went up smoothly and I lit a campfire in the pit. We heaved out a mountain of gear which had been crammed into every corner of the small Kia. Soon we were sitting around a crackling blaze eating baked beans from mugs! Masie's demanding personality made things tough at times but on the whole she coped with life under canvas pretty well.

The Park is 3,500 square miles of forest wilderness with just a few camp sites on the one road which bisects it. The forest is home to large numbers of moose, beaver and black bear, not to mention over 7,000 species of insect, (most of them biting)! It truly is a spectacular place. The forest is almost impenetrable on foot but there are a dozen or so way-marked hiking trails which give a flavour of the typical terrain to be found: Hardwood forest, pine forest, lakes, marsh, rocky ridges and tree-clad mountainsides.

I hiked several of the longer trails and although bothered by swarms of mosquitoes, flies and other insects in this hot and humid environment, I was only bitten a few times thanks to liberal application of repellent. One morning we took an early drive along the only road which snakes up and downhill through the park and took pictures of a moose grazing at the roadside. Sadly 2 dozen of these animals are ploughed down by cars and trucks each year in Algonquin alone.

Our 7-day stay was cut short by heavy rainstorms and a forecast for more. We pulled up camp and started the long drive eastwards 2 days early. Had we been better equipped I think we could have held out but getting wet and muddy is no fun especially with an active one year old. Other more seasoned campers had as many as 3 tents on their pitch, with the whole assembly covered by a giant tarpaulin stretched between trees. Many people use a semi-transparent day tent for dining, living and to keep the bugs out. Next time we will take more equipment and not be beaten by mother nature.

As we drove away from the forest through small nearby settlements, reflecting on the week, I spotted a dark shape lumber up from the left ditch and shuffle quickly across the road. A large black bear close to civilisation and in broad daylight!

today in the life

2009-07-13T18:20:00.007-03:00

5:00am wake up
5:30am get up
5:45am make toast for me and Maisie
6:00am try to ignore Teletubbies on TV. Drink coffee and read BBC online
7:30am wake Michelle
7:45am one year old R arrives for daycare
8:20am one year old J arrives for daycare
9:00am feed the 3 kids snacks
9:30am nap time for the toddlers
10:00am 35 mile cycle ride via the north shore

12:30pm lunch Pea soup and bread
1:00pm take the kids to the swing park in strollers. I push 2 in a double

2:00pm feed the kids lunch
2:30pm second nap time
4:20pm R's mum arrives to take him home
4:50pm J's mum arrives to take him home
5:00pm start preparing dinner
6:00pm eat dinner
8:00pm Maisie's bedtime
8:30pm watch an episode of some long season on DVD - currently X-Files Series 7
9:30pm Read aloud for 20 mins - currently The Judas Tree by Simon Clark
10:00pm bed

I made a vegetable curry for tonight's dinner:-

The Confederation Trail - Prince Edward Island

2009-06-29T09:19:00.010-03:00

In 1871 The Province of PEI began building the railway system which, though no one knew it then, would very soon compel the Island to lose its independence. The costs of the ambitious project quickly spiralled out of control. At one point there was apparently one railway station for every 2.5 miles of track. Construction contractors were paid by the mile which may explain the railway's meandering path.

A mere two years later, in 1873, with crippling debts, PEI joined the Canadian Federation. As part of the deal, Federal Government took over the railway project completely - land and finances. The Railway's growth was rapid and colourful. The Island was soon covered from tip to tip with main and branch lines. In the golden age of steam the track was upgraded from narrow gauge to full gauge to accommodate locomotives arriving on the Ice-Breaker Ferry from Nova Scotia and control of the railways was vested in the nationalised Canadian National Railway (CN).

In the 1950's and 1960's Provincial Government began paving the major highways to cater for the ever growing popularity of the automobile. As a result, passenger use of the railway declined sharply and the final passenger service ran in 1968. After that freight wagons were still hauled but the rising use of trucks on the roads began to steal that business in the 1970s. The end of the line was in sight.

CN abandoned the PEI railway in 1989 and the last operational rail cars and locomotives were taken off Prince Edward Island by sea. Salvage crews worked throughout the early 1990's removing tracks, cross-ties, and other railway facilities.

In 1994, before the routes became completely overgrown with dis-use, the Island Government purchased back the entire right of way from CN and began creating the Confederation Trail. Today over 75% of the former railway network on the island can be enjoyed as recreational trails by walkers and cyclists.

Yesterday I rode from our home on the outskirts of Charlottetown along a 13 mile section of the trail and back, stopping to take these photographs. One puncture but that was quickly repaired and couldn't spoil the ride.

cycling in canada

2009-05-26T15:11:00.006-03:00

There are a few more pictures taken during my rides here.

Spring has at last sprung so I relished the opportunity to unpack my bike. Luckily it survived the sea crossing in good shape (which is more than can be said for some of my other possessions - my printer was broken, dozens of CD cases - but I digress...) There is not likely to be another bicycle quite like this on Prince Edward Island - a Raleigh Quadra from the 1980s with a Reynolds 531 frame equipped with 14 speed Shimano 105.

Cycling in Canada is somewhat different from England. For starters there are few cyclists, at least here on PEI. Car drivers are not used to the sight of a lycra clad pedaller which is sometimes a good thing because they give me a suspiciously wide berth but sometimes a bad thing because they pass way too close and probably don't see me. In addition to wondering if I am invisible, I am riding on the right and trying to decide how boldly to hold my position.

Then there is the road surface. You haven't seen potholes until you have tried Canadian roads after a hard winter! So... remember to cast quick looks over your LEFT shoulder before swinging out 3 feet to miss an alarming crater. Around town the roads are swept in spring but on the highways the shoulder, where there is one, is strewn with gravel and in the country the red dirt gets washed off the fields in sandy waves.

All this makes it sound as though there is little fun to be had on two wheels here. But that is not the case at all. If you can persevere carefully across town, through the outskirts and onto the country roads the rewards are definitely there. There is no polution, hardly any traffic, huge blue skies, rolling hills and plenty of peace and quiet.

A long thin island means the coast is never far away, so there are spectacular sea views through sleepy dunes. With the sea comes the perpetual wind. My 40 mile circular loops inevitably involve spells in a low gear grinding against a flattening headwind. The benefit of a circular route becomes clear when I am bowling along effortlessly on the big chainring at 25mph.

Snow and ice will make cycling impossible in a few short months so I'll pedal while I can!

on my desk

2009-05-06T10:32:00.004-03:00

Dell XPS16

4gb RAM

2.5ghz processor

320gb hard drive

When my Fujitsu broke down beyond economic repair I could have retreated to the safety of offline life... however this rather nice example of modern technology enticed me to stay. Speaking of technology - here's some more.

in my parking bay

2009-04-29T19:41:00.004-03:00

2005 Kia Spectra

2 litre

4 cylinder

Not much more you can say about a grey car is there?

(...yep, it's full of Eastern promise - especially as it was made in Korea).

in the kitchen

2009-04-15T18:29:00.004-03:00

I baked a chocolate cake. Sadly my icing turned into toffee so I cut the cake into squares and we are steadily eating it with lashings of hot custard. (My mum would be smiling.)

More food for thought here.

the ice storm

2009-03-05T12:15:00.003-04:00

The air is so cold it slices your lungs. Moisture can't decide how to condense and precipitate so it adheres to everything like a thin glass veneer. Power lines are strung with the clearest crystal pendants; trees are coated with a glistening, frozen skin. Minus 10 in March is a nice reminder of winter's long grip on PEI.

In contrast to the weather, the reception which awaited me on my return was as warm as you can imagine. Settling back in was smooth and easy.

On Sunday we took a walk in the frigid air, pushing the buggy along sidewalks rutted with ice. I fell to earth with a huge bang. Michelle says my feet scooted right off the ground in front of me, cartoon style, as I thumped onto the ice. Now I am nursing a tender bruised back and elbow. Hmmph!

home is where the heart is

2009-02-16T19:39:00.004-04:00

I run the risk that no one is interested or worse, disapproves, but the time has come to announce my return to Canada. Since the beginning of last December I have been living back in England. On one hand this has been a glorious opportunity to see my two grown sons, to live with my eldest son and enjoy his company. On the other hand, it has been an agonising period of absence from Michelle and Maisie. At first it was a divinely providential opportunity to be with my sons and support them while they mourned their mum, Debbie’s grave illness, but it immediately became apparent to me that I had made a worrying mistake.

It is not that I regret being with these two upright and positive young men, far from it; nor that I regret being at Debbie’s hospital bedside while she silently fought the deadly infection which poisoned her, reduced her to a shadow of the woman I spent 30 years with and came close to ending her time, far from it again. It is that I regret my hasty conviction in making this a permanent return. I should have allowed a proper dialogue in Canada; I should have listened; I should have stepped up to the mark; I should have realised the immense worth of what I was destroying.

After thrashing and deliberating, fretting and considering, I wrote, despite fearing the response. To cut a long story short and to spare the personal and excruciating details of many long-distance conversations I/we have reached my/our current position. I am deliberately removing the agony from this episode and also the ecstasy, for they are private emotions special to the participants.

On 27th February I fly from British shores to return to my family on Prince Edward Island, Canada! Needless to say, I am elated at the prospect and can hardly wait to embark on this next chapter of my life.

Thank you all for not judging. Thank you all for reading.

beginning to end

2009-01-19T10:37:00.003-04:00

singularity
infinite density
big bang

speed of light
expansion

hydrogen
gravity
space
time
black hole
escape velocity
event horizon
collapse
big crunch

vanishing point

the answering of prayers

2009-01-14T15:44:00.004-04:00

Thank you all for your kind comments. I am relieved to report that Debbie is on a long, slow road to recovery. As a certain very important person said to me, a kind of Divine Providence placed me in England at the very moment when my presence was most needed.

Time and distance from Canada have allowed space for clear thinking. Difficult and painful conversations, crucial to mine and Michelle's future, have taken place amid much soul-searching. I stand at a crossroads now, ready to choose a path. I am happy that I have said all that I can in England, told people how much I love them and made a kind of peace with myself.

your prayers are needed

2008-12-21T09:08:00.004-04:00

Please say prayers for my former wife Debbie. She is on the Intensive Care ward in Southampton in critical condition. Her winter chest infection turned dreadfully serious and became pneumonia with complications. A severe lung infection has battered her organs and she is under sedation while the doctors adminster all the help they can.

Paul

end of an amazing chapter

2008-11-17T20:45:00.007-04:00

Those who visited Michelle's previous blog and have read between the lines on here will know I have made a decision which affects the lives of a number of people. I will be returning to England at the end of this month. This decision has been one of the hardest of my life and one that I have thrashed round in my head endlessly.

The bottom line is I can't be happy in my new life and that is not fair on those closest to me. I will be leaving behind a little daughter and a young wife who somehow will manage in my absence. That is the way things happen. I am disinctly unproud of myself and feel I have let many people down, not least Michelle and Maisie. That is a dramatic understatement, however we are adults and rational so remain friends.

l hope to rekindle my relationship with my two grown sons and start on a new path of quiet and calm. My exercise regime is injecting just sufficient endorphins to keep depression at bay although there are some bleak times. I have a new road bike waiting my return and will pedal my way to new horizons as best I can.

Fare well friends and "see you on the other side."

the race

2008-10-19T14:43:00.015-03:00

Well, I did it - my first race. There are some more photographs here, which Michelle took. I lined up at 10am this morning with the 427 registered runners for the PEI Half Marathon. I had pinned my race number to my running shirt and strapped the timing chip round my ankle and tried to forget my pain niggles. Would you believe it, I had a bad flare up of fibromyalgia in my left thigh yesterday, plus a severe pain in my right ankle and also a nasty insect bite in my right armpit just to give me something else to think about. I had felt pessimistic as we drove into Charlottetown this morning but I was determined to run through the pain if I could.

We parked and walked to the start in Grafton Street in the shadow of the Confederation Arts Centre. There was a buzz of excitement and a very large crowd by Charlottetown standards. All shapes, sizes and ages of runner were represented, and there were running kits of all colours. The weather was calm and kind but rather fresh, about 3C and bright sunshine. Michelle planned to stay in town with Maisie and be back by the finishing line in time for my arrival - whenever that might be.

Having chosen to start near the back, I had to walk for half a minute after the gun while the first runners set off and gave us space. Something told me if I was overtaken by fast runners at the start it would be psychologically worse than keeping my pace sensible and sticking to the speeds I had tested in training. So I tried to stick close to 6 minutes per kilometer and monitored my progress against my watch as each kilometer marker passed. The initial crush thinned out and soon runners in the 10k event peeled off to return to town while we half-marathoners forged on towards the airport on the outskirts of town.

I was so relieved that my pains had diminished when the race started and I actually felt pretty good throughout the whole 13 miles. After an hour or so of running I let my pace gradually creep up as I was fairly sure I could now finish comfortably. Because my training runs have tended to be an hour or less I am new to the idea of refueling mid-run. I had a plan though and in accordance with it, I drank a couple of gulps of Gatorade at 3 of the drink stations from the 10 kilometer mark onwards and also sucked down 2 power gels from foil pouches.

In contrast to my last couple of training runs I had plenty of energy left and started to pass other runners. There are 2 severe hills at the two thirds point and these were sorting the men from the boys. I slowed dramatically on the steep rises but kept grinding away and passed more exhausted runners with their hands on their knees at the roadside. The field was well spread out by now and a glance over my shoulder revealed the nearest runner was at least fifty yards behnd while there were a sprinkling 20 yards ahead for me to draw towards.

The city had closed most roads for the runners' safety but some arterial sections were open and simply had a coned-off running lane with policemen encouraging cars to stay slow, which obligingly they did. We turned onto University Avenue, the 7 kilometer finishing straight but the undulating road and the distance prevented any view of the finishing line yet. By now there was no passing done and runners at our position in the field were hanging on to make it to the line. Groups of interested families were clustered here and there by the roadside cheering us on. I waved and smiled at them.

Race day adrenalin and excitement made a big difference to my performance. Also, I only ran a couple of short runs this week, ate plenty of good food and rested as much as I could. I didn't stop to walk at all during the half marathon and overtook quite a lot of runners in the second half of the race, so I think my strategy paid off.

On the final approach to downtown, I could see the big time clock over the finish line so I knew my watch wasn't lying! As I neared the line they called out my name over the public address system - "Paul B***** from Ferndown, Great Britain!" I ran quite fast across the line and waved to the crowd, finishing 227th out of 427 in a "chip" time of 2 hours, 1 minute and 11 seconds. I am very pleased indeed with the time as I beat my best training time by over 10 minutes.

I have a finisher's medal and my race number as souvenirs. Now I am eager to run another half marathon and my target will be to beat 2 hours.

now or never

2008-10-12T20:15:00.004-03:00

This morning I ran my final long-ish training run, 9 miles along the Confederation Trail. This coming week I will do no more than a couple of 5-milers and take plenty of rest and good food. On Friday I pick up my race number and electronic chip ready for Sunday. There is no more I can do now but take care of myself and remember the golden rule - "don't set off too fast."

We drove along the south shore this afternoon and took some more pictures of the fall foliage then home for creamy pea soup and grilled cheese sandwiches!

prince edward island half marathon

2008-09-15T14:21:00.008-03:00

I have registered for the PEI Half Marathon on 19th October 2008. You can find all the information about this event at Prince Edward Island Marathon. Gulp!

I don't like to do something without testing it first from every angle so I assessed the 5 months of running already in my legs. Then I examined the published results for last year's event and discovered I would need to run quicker than 2 and a half hours not to disgrace myself. I have been running for fitness since May this year and have built up to 25 miles a week. I keep meticulous records for times and distances so my performance is not a mystery - I know what I should be capable of.

But until I've run the actual distance - 13.1 miles - how do I know I can go that far? My longest run to date had been 10 miles. So to answer the nagging inner voice I mapped a route of precisely 13.1 miles and headed out to test myself. I ran at a modest pace which I guessed was around 6mph, covering a mile every 10 minutes. My only "way marks" were points I had made a mental note of (like the halfway point, which I reached in an hour and five minutes) so I kept my pace on track. Luckily the early morning, weekend traffic was light and half my run was on the Confederation Trail, a great rural trail on a former railway line.

My heart and lungs were holding up well after an hour and a half but my legs began to feel very heavy whenever the road went up. Even so I managed to keep going without stopping and reached the 12 mile mark just after 2 hours. The final mile to home is downhill and I knew I was going to make it. My time? 2 hours 12 minutes. I was well and truly spent though.

Because I kept the pace sensible I wasn't out of breath, just physically exhausted. During the day I ate a lot and drank pint after pint of orange juice and water to replace the 6 pounds I lost in weight. Oh, and I slept like a log! Inevitably muscle soreness hit the next day and I was hobbling whenever I had sat still for too long. Two days later I was ready to hit the road again, on reduced mileage of course!

So I proved I could last the distance and I know what my approximate time should be in October. However, it ain't over till the fat lady sings and she isn't exercising her tonsils until 19th October! The Prince Edward Island Half Marathon is a modest but prestigious event with a small field. There will be hundreds of runners not the thousands we are used to seeing on TV at London or Boston. In other words there will be nowhere to hide!

I will be returning to England later this year, after a lot of consideration, plenty of talking and much sadness, so the run will be a kind of finale for me in Canada.

running with Hannah

2008-09-07T15:39:00.012-03:00

Ellen's Creek.

If you're still with me you'll know about my new-found interest in running. I chose not to blog about it daily but in hindsight perhaps I should have as it has become something of a passion for me.

I always reserve Sunday for my longest run of the week. This morning I mapped a new run on Map My Run following a long section of the abandoned railway line, now reborn as the Confederation Trail. The round trip measured a whisker under 11 miles, my longest ever!

Today I ran with Hannah and she was a tough partner - Tropical Storm Hannah. I set out in light rain and the threat of a lot more. After only a mile the heavens opened and I was drenched in seconds. I mean soaked to the skin. There was no point in turning back as I couldn't possibly get any wetter now. Hannah gushed across the road, surged in the storm drains, and coursed through culverts barrelling towards North River. I stopped avoiding deep puddles as there was nowhere else to run. My running shoes were full and heavy. A pole carrying electricity cables sizzled and crackled as I passed then suddenly a bright flare leaped from the top of the pole and the same instant I was deafened by an almighty clap of thunder. I think the pole was struck. There was no sidewalk for the first few miles but traffic was light and I was grateful the few cars and trucks were slowing to pull around me!

I had the new route fixed in my head and picked up the trail about 3 miles from home. The rain was torrential and I was reminded of this morning's "severe weather warning" - the remnants of Tropical Storm Hannah had spun up the Atlantic seaboard and was blowing herself out over Prince Edward Island. After an hour I still felt good and guessed I was easily maintaining my planned sub 10 minute miles. Unsurprisingly I saw no other runners today. One lone walker on the Confederation Trail raised his hand and called, "Good morning" as I passed him, adding it hadn't been like this when he started out. "Me neither," I agreed.

One section of the Trail was barricaded and signed for repair work but I ran around the barrier and sloshed through some deep red mud before the gravel path resumed. An hour and a half in, I felt at this rate I could certainly manage a half-marathon. Today wasn't the day though as I was pacing for 11 miles. Even where the trail crossed roads I didn't need to stop, very few people were braving this deluge even in their cars.

As I crossed the bridge at Ellen's Creek where the road inclines up I felt my energy draining and was glad I would be able to rest my knees, hips and ankles in just a few minutes. I completed the 10.69 mile course in 104 minutes and 3 seconds. Michelle had run a bath ready for me and I sank gratefully beneath the warm water to soak my old, aching body. I love running!

conspiracy theories

2008-08-21T19:44:00.009-03:00

Loose Change What really happened on 9/11.
Endgame The blueprint for global enslavement.
Zeitgeist The spirit of our age.
The Greatest Story Ever Denied The UFO phenomenon.
Esoteric Agenda Global conspiracy revealed.
Secret Space Extraordinary revelations about space.

I used to be sceptical about anything which I couldn't see or experience myself. That has changed in recent years and I now have an open mind about theories like those expressed in the above documentaries.

The films show how easily false truths can be propagated and the real truth supressed. An unsuspecting population will believe almost anything it is told and will seldom bother to search for the bigger picture. Various conspiracy theories are put forward here in clear and credible terms by intelligent articulate contributors and there are many areas of overlap.

Each film runs for about two hours so the complete list does require a significant investment of your time. If you can afford that investment it will repay with highly thought-provoking content.

Happy viewing.

new world record

2008-08-21T14:08:00.019-03:00

With all this talk of Usain Bolt and his sprinting I fear my own efforts are being shamefully overlooked. Here I am, achieveing noteworthy progress in my quest to become a proper runner, while that West Indian boy is grabbing all the limelight in Beijing. Let's put things in perspective. He is running a block or so in a few seconds which is fine for youngsters but I am eating up mile after mile of sidewalk and trail every day, like a real man. OK, his average speed is about 24mph while mine is closer to 7mph but surely distance counts for more!

I have plotted various courses around Charlottetown using Map My Run which relies on Google Earth, so I know the precise distances I cover. I keep meticulous records in "Sport Tracks" to monitor my evolution to finely honed specimen of humanity.

I completed my first 5 mile run in 55 minutes in May 2008. On Tuesday my time was 44 minutes 56 seconds and that wasn't the only world record to fall this week. I also smashed my previous best for 3 and a quarter miles, lowering my time to 27 minutes 13 seconds. Yesterday I scorched through my 2 and a half mile course in just 21 minutes and 58 seconds. Phew!

Sunday I will be tackling a gruelling 8.7 mile course which takes me way out of town almost to the airport. As usual I will be counting my steps, to make sure I don't set off too fast and run out of energy. The sidewalks here are laid in large concrete sections and I count strides per crack (don't laugh), usually 7 strides per 5 cracks will keep me slow enough to last the distance. The observant among you will have calculated this run is almost exactly one third marathon distance, a deliberate contrivance by me as I work towards my goal of 26 miles 385 yards.

I tend to build my morning around the run. Breakfast is a boiled egg with a slice of buttered toast and a mug of tea or coffee. Then I slide into my rather fetching black running gear: Under Armour compression shorts (long) and a Nike second skin shirt, Nike Air Pegasus running shoes and an Ironman stopwatch. Not only does the outfit look entirely convincing but it fits where it touches so there is no chance of chafing.

When the race is run, I sit and sweat for a while, dripping salty body juices on the front doorstep. Next comes the delicious long, cool bath to ease the muscles. Within an hour or two all the excitement is over for another day.

I mischeivously like to claim I am now a finely tuned athlete but the truth is after an hour of stiffening up on the couch I can barely move and first thing on the morning, well - first thing in the morning I hobble like an old man. "Fleet of foot" only applies once a day.

Thanks to Michelle for photographing me as I crossed my imaginary finishing line. She cleverly captured me off the ground in mid-stride and deftly airbrushed a passing car out of the scene.

time's winged chariot

2008-07-31T11:34:00.010-03:00

I Googled "time" quotations and found there are dozens. We are obsessed with it and rightly so. This morning I found, and was reminded of, so many sharp and witty statements about the passage of time that I can't pick a favourite.

We frivolously waste our time until one day it dawns on us that our time is finite. It depends on our character but we either develop "ostrich syndrome" or face mortality by drawing a will, draft final letters of request and instruction and purge our lives of all unnecessary possessions and distractions.

By middle-age I had accepted I was never going to be an astronaut or an activist, a politician or a pole-vaulter, gregarious or dynamic, a leader or regulator. Then it became a race against time to achieve realistic short-term goals. I wrote my memoirs at age 40 and recently added another decade's worth. Putting a life in order is a continuing task though not an endless one, as the Grim Reaper will doubtless call time before I am entirely ready.

I narrowed my interests to music, motorcycling, photography, writing and reading. There is no time for any more... but maybe there is. I rekindled my boyhood interest in astronomy and began researching serious telescopes. I love to catalogue but I don't have time to map the known universe. I would nonetheless like to see with my own eyes the light which left distant galaxies hundreds of millions of years ago. A telescope is poised delicately on the back-burner for now while I pursue an avid interest in Science-Fiction novels, a new offshoot interest which thieves more of my time.

It takes time to write a novel. Sooner or later I will make space in my schedule to expand one of my short stories because, well... because don't we all (the aspiring immortals among us anyway) want to leave a permanent mark behind? First I need to think of all the right words, then sift them into the right order and finally push myself boldly into the arena of rejection - the hard part.

Oh, and I nearly forgot genealogy, another time-consuming interest which has filled many a gigabyte on my hard drive. I have unearthed the names and brief details of over a thousand lives which took many centuries to live. Wouldn't it be amazing to talk to those long-dead souls and discover how they filled their time?

Never before has there been so much to worry about yet so much astonishing complacency. As we rush towards the Age of Aquarius, the Internet bombards us with conspiracy theories: 9/11, Roswell, the Jesus myth, GM crops, global warming, world domination, 2012, Kennedy, Bilderberg and on and on and on... They are probably all true and all inter-related.

It seems likely that later this century a New World Order will see a much depleted global population micro-chipped under the rule of a single planetary government. I can't do anything about that but despite trimming down, you see, I have too many diversions and not enough hours in the day.

Oh well...

After 3 months of running my times continue to fall. My favourite outing of 3.21 miles is down to 28 mins 55 secs. I ran a total distance of 89 miles in July. The temperature stayed level at 28C (82F) but I forged ahead and ran every day. I think it is time I started writing every day too, while there is still time.

"But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near."

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marvell
1621-1678

sunset

2008-07-18T21:11:00.006-03:00

Click for more views of a Cavendish sunset.

Georgetown, Prince Edward Island

2008-07-12T21:14:00.005-03:00

Today we drove east to Georgetown to see the schooner "Bluenose II" which was in the small port there. This is a replica of a 1920s Nova Scotian racing schooner. At 161 feet long and with a main mast towering 118 feet overhead it is a very impressive timber ship. I put a few more pictures here which show the vessel in a little more detail.

to the australian wanker who keeps spamming me and my friends' sites...

2008-07-07T09:00:00.003-03:00

You Patrick/Micky are the arsehole of the Lord, farting out the divine stench of your own putrefaction. Point your antipodean anus elsewhere. You are a dry drunk. You are still drinking in your head. You have no concept of real sobriety. Stay away because none of us has any interest in your weasel words. FUCK OFF.

running at fifty

2008-06-23T17:45:00.011-03:00

You will look like this if you run too far, too fast, too often, too soon but when did I ever take good advice or embrace moderation? A couple of months ago I told myself I was starting off gently to build up but I set a pretty steep curve and allowed only one rest day a week.

At first I was stopping to walk during my 1.7 mile run, gasping for breath and my heart pounding. I would reach the finish with the watch stopping at just on 20 minutes and I would take another 20 to recover normal breathing and heart rate. Now, 6 weeks later, I can do that run in 13 minutes 10 seconds.

The “Map My Run” website, linked to Google Earth, lets you plot and measure routes and record times. I have 5 regular runs, the longest being 5 miles. Each time I run, I lower my best time by a few more seconds and am learning to pace myself on the longer outings.

Running as though I was still 27 has been tough but the benefits are that my stamina has improved dramatically and my recovery time is now quite short. Oh, and I have lost 12 pounds in weight.

5 miles: 43 mins

3.2 miles: 28 mins 58 secs

2.6 miles: 22 mins 08 secs

1.7 miles: 13 mins 10 secs

1 mile: 7 mins 30 secs

the long distance runner

2008-05-07T19:05:00.009-03:00

1985 Nike Air Pegasus running shoes. I pounded the pavements of Bournemouth in the 1980s wearing these exact shoes, (at the time, running from myself and delaying the time of evening when I would reach for the bottle.) Eventually it got to be too much like hard work and heck, I was young and immortal. Why on earth would I need to exercise in my late twenties.

23 years later I have dusted them off and begun running in them again. I have to say they are supremely comfortable and have that certain "retro" quality which is impossible to fake. At 50 I have discovered I am no longer immortal and I definitely do need to exercise. After 3 weeks of building up I now run 2.7 miles in 25 minutes - pathetic really but it is all my old bones can manage just yet.

2008 Nike Air Pegasus running shoes. I am too easily unsettled by anything new and unfamiliar so I was mightily relieved to find the same old model is still available from Nike a quarter of a century on (albeit updated a little). I invested in this second pair of special footwear partly to satisfy my craving for modern technology, scuplted into science fiction running shoes and partly to give my old feet something delicious to slip into as an occasional treat. These beauties were worth waiting for. I feel I have a distinct unfair advantage over my fellow pavement pounders as I gallop along on bouncy pillows of air. The vintage pair will be my workhorse runners and the new ones for high days and holidays.

Even running apparel has come on in leaps and bounds since I last browsed the racks of a sports shop. My new running shirt and shorts weigh precisely nothing and have to be anchored to the rail in my closet to stop them floating to the ceiling like party balloons. They are so light I keep glancing down to make sure I haven't had a ghastly oversight and gone running naked. The same goes for my wafer-thin tracksuit, which is in my favourite and rather eye-catching combination of black and grey. (Well, I couldn't resist having the full set and I will need it [even wafer-thin] when winter comes around.)

Never one to do anything by half, I have a vague notion of running long distances in due course. I like the feeling when my lungs work hard and fill to capacity without a twinge. I like my heart beating fast. My current run of just under 3 miles would need to be followed by a further 9 of similar length to get up to marathon distance. That seems an impossibility as I sit with sore muscles and write this but why not aim high.

Maisie Jane

2008-04-09T21:45:00.010-03:00

Born in the 8th minute of the 4th pm hour of the 8th day of the 4th month of the 8th year of the millenium. A talismanic date to step into this world. She might live a full century and will see incredible things. At 50 years my new daughter's senior, I hope I get to see some of them with her. We are here too.

a new life - part 14

2008-03-11T15:00:00.002-03:00

His appearance was very different from the time of the crime. Yesterday he had shaved his head leaving a neat goatee. Since Black’s visit he had been cultivating a convincing Manchester accent, a Bolton dialect to be precise and Francis was precise. Jane had been fooled time and again by his mastery of voices. He had often called pretending to be her brother from Glasgow, or her workmate from Newcastle. Ha-way bonnie lass...

***

The payphone smelled of stale cigarettes.
“Black? Never mind who this is, I have information for you man.” Francis’ Caribbean lilt was very convincing.
“ I sold a gun to a girl called Sue. The word is man, she did something silly with it.” He hung up while Black was still stuttering.

You’ve got the gun Sue, not me. His mind was razor sharp now. He felt jubilant. The clouds of the last few months had well and truly parted. His perspective was clear, his memory complete. That last decision had been a masterstroke. Sue was holding a murder weapon and it was covered with her fingerprints. She worked for a bank that had been robbed. Good luck to her when Black started nosing around asking where she had buried Francis and his wife. Pick the bones out of that lot, he smiled wryly and set off on foot for the car park.

***

Francis swung his old Ford out of a nondescript South London long term parking lot. He gunned it across Waterloo Bridge and headed west out of town. It was a cool, late October afternoon and he rolled down his window inviting in the chill breeze to keep him awake.

He drove through Knightsbridge, Kew and Twickenham in twilight before reaching the Motorway and building to a comfortable cruising speed. Illuminated blue signs slid overhead, “Hampshire and the West.” Every mile pushed his old life further behind. He glanced at his watch, it would be dark when he reached his old father’s farm.

Checking his pocket for the twentieth time, he felt his passport and wallet. He settled back and summoned thoughts of a far-flung continent, imagining a palm-fringed beach with the whitest sand, the bluest sea and an impossibly tall glass of iced water.

Steppenwolf thundered from the stereo:

“Get your motor running, head out on the highway,
Looking for adventure in whatever comes our way.”

Behind him on the back seat a shovel rolled in time to the beat.

THE END

a new life - part 13

2008-03-08T11:00:00.003-04:00

Go on! The dust has settled. If you let it settle any more you’ll forget which spot the “X” marks. Francis pulled on his brown leather jacket and slipped out of St Agnes Home, walking quickly towards Waterloo Station in the late autumn chill. There was something he should collect before disappearing for good.

The station was dense with travellers and echoed with mumbled announcements from the public address speakers. Francis wormed his way across the gigantic concourse, with its long snaking queues. He liked the anonymity of a large random crowd.

This time he approached the long line of grey metal lockers with a slow measured tread, zeroing in on his own. Glancing once over his shoulder he dialled 791 into the lock. Cautiously he opened the door a crack but already it was obvious… the gun was gone. He wiped the interior with his hand and pulled out a typed note.

“THE POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING A MURDER. I WILL RETURN THE WEAPON WHEN YOU GIVE ME HALF THE MONEY”

He crumpled the note in his trouser pocket and closed the locker. Sue… bitch!

He flipped open his wallet and thumbed out Black’s business card. Call me anytime, whenever you begin to remember anything. Anything at all. Francis sauntered to a row of phone booths, slid into one and lifted the receiver.

a new life - part 12

2008-03-03T23:45:00.003-04:00

“You’re okay son, “ the impossibly young paramedic grinned at him. “The bus came off worse, you should see it!”

“You were running out of Waterloo Station as if you had the devil on your tail,” said his even younger partner as she shone a pencil beam in his eye.

“… at least I got rid of the gun, didn’t I?” Francis muttered. He felt sick. Had he just woken from a very real nightmare? There were details he could remember easily, like the gun and the 3 shiny keys. But other details hovered maddeningly at the edge of his mind, like niggling thoughts about Jane and her share of the money. Perhaps if he concentrated less directly more details would return… like what the hell had happened to Jane? Memories started swirling in mist. He thought he heard a muffled gunshot and saw a pillow explode. He saw a ghostly shadow digging furiously in a field. Then a veil descended and his mind became blank.

“What’s my name. Where am I?” He was panicking now and trying to stand.

“Whoa, you’re in shock son. Lie still, we’ll get you to hospital pronto. Right, let’s get him in the wagon. One, two, three… lift.”

Francis’ breathing became slow and deliberate. He was falling deep, deep asleep.

***

For seven days he lay on his back on starched hospital sheets. Faces came and went, talking to him sometimes in scolding voices, sometimes pleading and then in gentle, soothing tones. He rose from profound sleep and remained suspended just below waking. He heard and saw but could not control his thoughts.

Sue had been his most frequent visitor. She had taken some time off from the bank after the robbery. Francis’s sudden departure took on new meaning when Detective Black had asked her to view some CCTV footage of her handbag being lifted in the supermarket.

“Yes, that’s Francis,” Sue had confirmed when Black showed her the Supermarket surveillance tape.
“Thank you,” nodded Black. “That’s all I need to know. Oh, and best not to talk about this with any of your work colleagues okay? And certainly not to Francis. We don’t want gossip do we,” he added.

“No officer, I shan’t be talking to anyone,” Sue promised.

***

She was no sleuth but trailing him had been ridiculously easy. Her target was oblivious to his new shadow. The day after he had murdered and buried his wife she had been following him. Even when he had bolted across the crowded thoroughfare at Waterloo Station he had looked back at her without a flicker of recognition. He seemed to be running blindly from everyone and everything.

Unknown to Sue, D.I. Black’s men had been pursuing Francis too but rather more discreetly. However Sue kept running and was in time to see a small backpack being hurled into a locker. She watched from behind a pillar, memorising the lockers, counting up and along the rows. The police gave away their presence with sudden sharp whistles and Sue had watched incredulous as Francis took off again spurting out of the station into the path of a red double-decker bus. Immediately there was a howl of rubber and a sickening thud.

a new life - part 11

2008-02-29T14:30:00.003-04:00

Francis' transition to a new life was tantalizingly close. The days of a hollow career, a sad marriage and crippling debts were sliding behind him but a few sticking points remained. Francis was number one suspect in a murder and in the frame for bank robbery. His amnesia had been real enough, though his ability to maintain it for three months should earn him an Oscar. There was no incriminating money in his possession and the gun was safely stowed at Waterloo. He reckoned things were buried deeply enough not to betray him.

But the voice in his head whined on: you walked out of a banking career then the bank was robbed. You know which way suspicion will fall... and you know the cops always hunt for a murderer close to home, don't you... they aren't looking beyond you. Soon the doctors will say you're fit for serious questioning. You'd better get ready to run.

***

Black and his surveillance footage had linked Francis to the key theft. He kept coming back to that. How could he have been so stupid? At least now he had no wife to identify him. When dividing the cash with her he had wondered if she would ever get to spend any. No way. Letting her think she was in on it had been a temporary move to buy him thinking time. But what he did to the back of her head... that hadn't been in his original plan.

One lunchtime back in the summer Francis had made a discreet enquiry in a pub, that same evening he was the owner of a gun. It had been amazingly simple. After the shooting he had hauled Jane’s body down to the car under cover of darkness and driven through the night. Before dawn he had reopened the earth in that remote corner of his father’s Hampshire farm and buried Jane along with her suitcase of cash right beside his own two parcels.

Now get back to London, lay low and let the dust settle, he advised himself. Yet the other nagging, harping voice filled his head, they''ll be coming for you. Would the voices ever stop haunting him? When the dust had settled and he ran would he ever stop running?

***

Francis flopped onto the spare bed just before the first glimmer of dawn. He lay thinking about the night’s ghastly events. His frown turned to a grin when he thought about how he had called the cows over to tread the ground. That was smart.

Suddenly he sprang from the bed in alarm. The gun, the bloody gun, he thought. Lunging under the bed he grabbed the cold lump of steel and thudded back downstairs two at a time. He grabbed a small backpack from the coat rack and slammed the front door behind him.

a new life - part 10

2008-02-25T22:00:00.001-04:00

She had encouraged him one hundred per cent all along and hadn’t it even been her idea in the first place? Her change of heart hadn’t truly surprised him. He knew she could never follow through with anything. Yet this was such a cheating, stealing, life-changing thing he had hoped it might for once be different.

In the end her old selfishness surfaced and she had told him to leave and “take his half of the filthy money with him.” He couldn’t trust her to keep quiet, her urge to boast and gossip would be too strong. She was unreliable so silencing her for good had become inevitable.

Her half of the money was still in the suitcase on top of her wardrobe where she had slung it, 18 brick-sized wads of twenties – enough to buy a whole new life. Francis had been less casual. The day after the robbery he had driven to his father's isolated farm and buried his new life in an isolated corner of a remote field in two black watertight parcels. X marked the spot in his mind.

***

Now in the quiet house he climbed the familiar stairs in darkness, keeping to the edges to avoid creaks. The gun dug into his belly.

He hit her with the butt hard enough to knock her senseless but she was still conscious, just. He pressed her head face down into the pillow while his right hand held the gun barrel to the base of her skull. She was no longer struggling just whimpering, “Please Frank, don’t, plea…” His point-blank shot to the back of her head blew her into the pillow, cutting her off mid sentence. At least he hadn’t had to look at her face.

a new life - part 9

2008-02-19T03:00:00.003-04:00

Francis dreamed vivdly every night, long and hard and fast.

Together they had carried the haul up to their spare bedroom on that wet summer night, puffing and panting with the effort. Then Jane had ruined everything. He was an angry man now. One minute she was all for disappearing with him. The next she wanted half the money to stop her talking. She had turned on him in an instant and he had been so deep in organizing that he hadn’t seen it coming. They had been “passport-ready.”

The house was almost cleared of furniture. On the floor by their bed was a steep pile of legal letters demanding repayment of their sky-high credit cards. There too was a repossession order for the house. Time had run out and flight was now the only escape.

Beneath their lids, Francis' eyes flicked rapidly left and right. He twitched as scenes rolled on his mind’s silver screen.

Crouched on the carpet they were counting, one for you, one for me.

Jane stowed her share back into one of the canvas bags. There was already a suitcase lying on the bed.
“Leaving tonight are you?” Francis asked dryly.
Jane smirked without answering and flicked the locks on the empty case. She put the whole canvas bag inside and pressed the locks shut. Then she swung the case on top of her wardrobe and lay back on the bed.

“What you doing with yours?” she asked. “... well?”

Francis slid two bundles of banknotes into an inside jacket pocket then slowly and methodically wrapped his pile in strong sheets of black plastic, making two large parcels. He bound them with tape, took them to the spare bedroom, knelt and slid them under the bed. Aware Jane had followed him and was watching he snapped, without getting up, “that’s what I’m doing with mine Jane, OK!"

He heard her grunt and then her footsteps receded in the hall. Reaching back under the bed he withdrew a .44 Magnum then slowly and carefully slid it under his pillow.

***

Francis rolled over in his sleep and groaned.

a new life - part 8

2008-02-12T15:30:00.001-04:00

Francis hurried the two blocks to where his car was parked. The bags pulled on his shoulders and he felt the true weight of his deeds. His muscles burned and the rain slanted into his eyes making them sting. The air was warm and heavy with the rich earthy smell of summer drizzle. He slung the bags on the back seat then bobbed into the front and slumped behind the wheel panting hard.

He stole into the house and found Jane waiting in the kitchen. She was drinking. Her cheeks were flushed.
“Let’s do it then,” she snapped. She picked up a pencil and started tapping a sheet of paper in front of her.
“Not so fast, I need a drink too.” Francis lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels almost to his lips. Then he slowly lowered it back onto the table and whispered, “Get me a drink of water.”

Fifteen minutes later the table was stacked with a large neat cube of cash. Francis sipped his water like Jack Daniels while his wife gulped her spirits like water.
“Right, let’s deal with this stuff,” Francis said in a low voice.

a new life - part 7

2008-02-06T12:30:00.001-04:00

Day after day he returned to the gardens on Victoria Embankment. He knew if he left before midday there was little danger of an accidental encounter with his former work colleagues piling across to escape the office for an hour. He stared at today's early scattering of people on the benches. He shook his head in exasperation at the sheer lack of normal human responsibilities. Sweet wrappers blew across the grass, cigarette ends were flicked onto the flowerbeds. He closed his eyes and squeezed them tightly shut.

Within seconds he was sleeping fitfully… jerking and grunting as he dreamed. He was back in mid-summer waiting for dark to fall…
“You can do this Frank,” his wife’s voice insisted. “Come on, we’ve been over it again and again.” Jane had always been an insistent woman.

And it had been impossibly easy. He had worked in the damned bank for years and he knew the layout blindfold. For one heart-stopping second the newly ground door key stuck a little but the front door gave softly and he was in. He padded to the alarm console and tapped the code. The code was changed once a month. The red light turned green and began blinking. Within ten seconds he had trotted nimbly downstairs in the blanket of darkness and was standing by the cash safe.

He thrust his two keys into their slots on the safe door and heard the reassuring clunk, clunk as he turned them.

Now he span the wheel, listening to the huge bolts withdraw then pulled on the door’s massive weight. It swung slowly but easily and admitted him into the soft warm darkness within. Once inside Francis pulled a torch from his pocket and snapped on the yellow beam.

“Jackpot,” he breathed almost inaudibly. The shelves were stacked with neat blocks of notes ready, he knew, for collection tomorrow. He pulled a canvas bag from inside his jacket and shook it out. From inside that he pulled another and began filling them both carefully and systematically. In under three minutes he had cleared £240,000 from the shelves in twenties and fifties. It took up much less room than even his experience had estimated. His packing was neat and faultless.

Francis closed the safe door, locked it and hauled the two bags upstairs to the front door. They were heavy but not excessively so. Standing unceremoniously on a table in the banking hall he could see over the frosted glass and onto a rain-swept street beyond. Rain, thank heaven for sweet summer rain…

... now in the park, a late autumn drizzle fell soft and cold. It had already soaked through his shirt. He awoke as it began to rain harder. It was early afternoon and the office workers had come and gone. Had they seen him? Francis found himself not really caring.

“I think I might be rich!” He said aloud to the empty benches. He rubbed his new goatee and walked through the park to take shelter under mighty beech trees. Below the vivid red and brown canopy he pondered his recurring dreams of the three keys, the stack of money and the gunshot. He couldn’t deny they were genuine memories. The snooping detective smelled a rat and St Agnes’ Home wasn’t a safe haven any more.

Tagged by MD

2008-02-05T09:07:00.001-04:00

Pick up the nearest book of at least 123 pages
Open the book to page 123
Find the 5th sentence
Post the next 3 sentences
(Tag 5 more people)

Thanks for the tag, I'm surprised you missed this one on the bookshelves!

The Complete History of Jack the Ripper
by Philip Sugden

The practice of offering government rewards, it ran, had been discontinued some years ago because they had been found to produce more harm than good and, in the case of the Whitechapel Murders, there was a special risk that a reward, "might hinder rather than promote the ends of justice." Montague was less than impressed. As he explained in a letter to Warren, the Home Secretary's view of rewards was "not in accord with the general feeling on the subject."

PV: to readers of my story, this interlude is though unrelated, decidedly appropriate!

a new life - part 6

2008-01-31T17:00:00.001-04:00

They knocked again. “Francis, you’ve got a visitor. Can we come in?” Francis swung his legs off the bed and cautiously walked to the door. He opened it and recognized the doctor, a memory specialist but the man with him, eyeing Francis from head to toe, was unfamiliar.
“This is Detective Black, Francis. He wants to talk to you. Don’t worry I’ll sit with you.”

Black motioned Francis to sit on his bed. Francis complied and the detective sat beside him. The doctor rested nonchalantly on the desk, legs crossed. Nothing to fear here, his body language said.

Black smiled. “Just routine, Francis. May I call you Francis?” He continued without waiting for an answer, “You had an accident and lost your memory. But you are an interesting man Francis, you are in a unique position and I think you may just be able to help me solve a little mystery.”

Francis shook his head. “I can’t help you.”
“Well. you were taken to hospital in an ambulance a few months ago,” confided the detective, “and the doctors tell me you were saying some strange things.”

“I can’t remember any accident,” Francis insisted. “All I know is they told me I fell asleep for seven days and then I woke up. They brought me here to rest and I'm slowly getting better.”

“You see Francis, I’m a patient man and I believe you. You told me the same story three months ago. I believe you but a suspicious man might ask, can’t help? Or won’t help? Can’t remember or won’t remember?” Black waited for a reply. None came.

“Francis, there are special doctors at a different hospital and I’d like them to run some new tests, ok?” Black scanned Francis hard for a flicker of reaction. There was none.

“OK, enough for today,” said the doctor. “We’ll organise a day at St James’ for next week and call you. Black held up his hands in defeat. “No problem doc, call me.” He pressed his business card into the doctor’s hand.

He opened the door, “I’ll see myself out.” He stepped out then slowly turned back to face the room. “Oh and one more thing Francis, you may like to think about why you were carrying a woman’s handbag at the supermarket back in June.”

Francis heart heaved in his chest. “Not me detective, I’m strictly a backpack man!” He managed.
“Thing is we saw you on TV Francis, saw you on one of those funny little cameras at the store. Think about it.”

The visitors left and Francis sank slowly into his chair. He would not be staying around for any more tests.

a new life - part 5

2008-01-24T08:00:00.001-04:00

In the days before he had resigned Francis had prepared for his new life. Making wax impressions of his bank front door key and one of the two keys to the vault was simple. It had been just as easy finding out who held the second key to the vault a week after he had walked out. He had watched the bank from a discreet distance after closing time. A couple of days’ surveillance revealed Tony and Sue were last to leave. Tony had taken over Francis’s key.

Sue was easy game. He followed her home for several nights and soon enough she headed for the supermarket. He swung into the car park behind her. Scatter-brained she flitted from aisle to aisle often leaving her trolley for a few seconds with her handbag in plain view. Sue bent to inspect the bottom shelf and as Francis glided past he plucked her handbag and dropped it into his own trolley. He moved swiftly but calmly to the far end of the store before dipping his hand into Sue’s bag. The heavy bunch of bank keys was at the bottom. He pocketed them and abandoned his trolley.

On his way out he dropped the handbag at the service desk, jumping the queue but leaving no explanation. Sue wouldn’t hurt a fly and in a curiously compassionate way he wanted her to be reunited with her bag. He knew Sue, she would go straight to the desk in a panic but he was guessing it would be morning before she even checked for the key.

He guessed right.

a new life - part 4

2008-01-17T14:00:00.001-04:00

The ceiling of his room was old and grey. It was cracked in neat rectangles and squares like a patchwork of farmers’ fields. Francis picked a stub of pencil from his nightstand and stood on the bed, his feet pushing deep into the old soft mattress. Reaching up he carefully marked a small X in the corner of one field.

All was quiet in his head. Satisfied, he sank back down and stretched out listening to the distant clatter of pots. The sounds were a reassuring affirmation that the world was turning and people had a purpose. He felt an inner murmur as the sleeping giant stirred. He thought about the day he walked out on his job. With the thought came a sudden incendiary burst of anger. You wasted the best years of your life, a voice thundered. Quiet reason countered, But it’s over now and you finally won, don’t forget that. You helped yourself to what you believed was yours and in so doing, balanced your life’s books. His mental referee stood poised to intervene.

He had been washed up for years and it had been a blessed relief to simply walk away. Something else played at the edge of his mind. He had needed to distance himself from an action… a deafening explosion, something utterly unspeakable. Sickened, he groaned and thought instead of the three bright silver keys which he had dropped from Westminster Bridge into the brown Thames.

Suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor outside and the sound of voices approaching. Francis stowed his memories safely away.
“… some kind of amnesia.” said a muffled official voice.
“Total?” asked another. There was no response but the footsteps ceased and knuckles rapped sharply on his door.

a new life - part 3

2008-01-14T15:00:00.001-04:00

Francis liked this café, it was old, dirty and usually quiet. He stared out the window, absently stirring his coffee even though he didn’t take sugar. He was thinking about his grown up children (a boy and a girl he felt sure) but whenever he tried to visualise their mother he saw a face out of focus.

Today he had been out walking but the rain had forced him indoors. Two office girls burst in shaking off their umbrellas as they slid into a booth opposite him. Their heads were almost touching as they giggled, sharing confidences. I bet they are laughing at me. To give his presence some authenticity, he began studying a dog-eared menu with no intention of eating.

Little by little, pieces of his past were falling into place. He remembered the layout of a large house and in his mind’s eye he moved from room to room, peering into the corners, searching for more clues. He knew how to drive a car, he knew because he practised manoeuvres and gear changes in his head. He had been a bank clerk. The truth is, he was scared to remember more. Closing off unpleasant realities was safer, yet he remembered more than he was choosing to admit. Sometimes he caught himself balancing on the edge of memory’s precipice, one slip and he could free-fall into total recall. There was horror lurking in that black abyss.

“Refill?” A young waitress in a blue check coat was hovering beside him, her steaming metal coffee jug poised.
“Refill before we close?”
“Sorry, I was day-dreaming…” Francis put a hand over his mug. “No thanks. See ya.”

He walked fast in light drizzle. The staff at St Agnes dolled out a little pocket money each Friday and he would be there to collect his. It wouldn’t do to be late.

***

Take your time… Francis, take your time. There’s no hurry old chap,” said the doctor.
Oh but there is, I’m 49 already. He was racing through a test paper, a kind of questionnaire designed to exercise the memory. He had never believed these tests were innocent and today he felt sure there were trick questions intended to catch him out. His paranoia bone itched. They are looking for inconsistencies. They think I’m faking.

He always rushed the tests, hoping to give the impression they didn’t matter to him. But a test means marks. Marks mean pass or fail. There would be consequences. If they ever guessed he had begun to retrieve his past he would be out on his ear. For now it seemed prudent to stay in this safe place while he formulated a plan.

***

He could see out of his high window if he climbed on the table. Autumn leaves swirled and danced on the grass below. On the horizon were the roof arches of Waterloo Station.

791. The numbers just came into his head. A locker combination for left-luggage.

Last night’s dream had been the most vivid. He was running helter-skelter along a railway platform, gripping a small heavy backpack with one hand and pushing travellers aside with the other. Head down he sprinted past blurred posters and lines of commuters. He was leaning forward to the brink of balance, running out of control and his pursuers receded in the crowd behind him. As he slowed a line of grey lockers came into focus. He dropped to a walk and looked about him. He slammed the backpack into an empty locker and snapped his padlock on.

Hands on knees, gasping for breath he felt suddenly very sick. Abruptly he stooped over a waste bin and spewed his breakfast, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His heart hammered then suddenly behind him came the shriek of a whistle. He broke into a fast run again, sprinting toward the station’s exit gates. Bright sunlight dazzled him as he burst onto the street...

Francis jolted awake to the drone of his alarm clock. Red digits 7am.

a new life - part 2

2008-01-06T10:30:00.001-04:00

When he awoke the screaming had stopped. Mid-afternoon sun slanted in at his high, square window and a faint smell of missed lunch hung in the air. A dream vaguely about fat wads of banknotes slid away. The day had a different feel now. Gone was his early morning optimism, replaced by a mild defeatism. This was his pattern.

What is the point in trying, whined his inner voice, the usual sign he was spiralling. People don't notice, they don’t even remember what you say, so shut your mouth and speak only when spoken to. Keep your observations to yourself. Don’t make plans or develop a schedule. You’ll be the only one doggedly sticking to it. So loneliness had become his companion.

He caught himself thinking about the safety and dependability of numbers and lists. Comfort came to him in strange forms these days. But when it did his mind played video clips of a tidy office desk with sharpened pencils and impeccably stocked drawers. Today there was audio too, a hum of official sounding conversation, punctuated by phones ringing and the click and gush of a coffee dispenser.

Francis rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. If your desk was amongst others then you weren’t a manager. Low level, that’s what you were, low level. In truth he had already remembered this but had kept the thought from taking full shape because it upset him. As a youngster his family and friends respected his intellect and were sure he was destined for high things. Oh, what happened to that bright, confident and alert boy?

Why had he made the crazy choice to suffocate his youthful exuberance counting other people’s money? He didn’t know any more but it had signalled the end of his development. No, he had never been destined for the top. Sure, he wore sharp blue suits and walked the walk but inside he was living a lie. He simply hadn’t believed in what he was doing. You were a square peg in a round hole and you hadn't the guts to get out. He felt he was better than most people but that had never been recognized. It made him introspective and frustrated. His ludicrously high standards were met only by himself.

The floodgates were wide open now and a swirling torrent of negativity filled his mind: stupid obsessions, sadness, bitter regret and crushed ambitions. Well, there’s no denying it now, you’re remembering stuff. Blurred images of an unfulfilled life swam in and out of focus. Can you remember now how you survived all those years? What your crutch was? He knew the answer precisely but refused to let the voice give it headroom. His mouth was dry.

Francis conceded there was more than one man in his head. While the bitter, angry one thrashed around then wallowed in self pity, a calm, quiet one was hatching plans for him, almost unobserved. He knew he was making a conscious effort to keep his quiet voice under the radar because thinking openly might jeopardise his progress. The angry voice would hear and scupper the plans. He needed to keep angry voice in the dark until quiet voice grew strong enough to survive another fight.

This time he was aware of a third voice, a referee to see fair play. There had been no referee four months ago, the day he had walked out on his job and ended his old life.

a new life - part 1

2008-01-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

By the time he had taken five steps Francis knew this path was the wrong one. All roads eventually wind up at the same place of course but it's the variety of routes that makes the journey worthwhile. Francis didn't care for the cracks in the pavement or the grubby shop windows. This road was distinctly not worthwhile. Not worth the erosion of shoe leather. Not worth the tendonitis behind his left knee. A change of scenery was what he needed.

He turned abruptly and walked into a tall city gent who had been tailgating him. "Pardon me, sir," muttered the suit, touching the brim of his hat as he regained marching speed. Francis shook his head in despair. The standard of pedestrian traffic was too shabby these days. Surely everyone knew the safe gap for in line walking was three full paces?

The point is, he told himself severely in his head, the point is... actually what the hell was the point? This was happening too frequently for his liking. Lost snatches of thought, like dream fragments hovering on the edge of conscious thought. He knew he was mad at something, but what? Come to think of it he was just mad at the world. He almost always held an opinion the exact opposite of everyone else. But that doesn't make me wrong does it? The insistent voice whined in his head.

Was it his own voice or the thoughts of another personality, camped out in his mind? Having retraced his steps he turned right at the lights. He was the only pedestrian to wait for the little green man before striding into the road. Walking rules, pedestrians and opposing views, phew! He was worn out and it was barely 9am. Time to return to base and revise his approach to the day. Soon the redbrick fortress came back into view.

Not an asylum more a home for the intellectually challenged. Francis read the words that formed an arch above the old Victorian gates: St Agnes' Home for the Frail. They wouldn't get away with such political incorrectness these days of course but to tear down those old iron gates would be an even worse crime. So the weak in mind, who were a danger to no one but themselves, retained the sobriquet "frail."

The shortest route to the grand front doors was across a manicured lawn but Francis used the stone pathway. He knew there was enough time to sing the first verse of Brain Damage. As usual his right foot touched the doorstep with the final line, "Got to keep the loonies on the path."

He climbed the wide creaking stairs to reach his top floor sanctuary. Shutting the door softly on the day's difficult world he laid back on the hard narrow bed. From somewhere deep in the building a man's voice wailed, winding up like a banshee. He couldn't make out the words, he didn't need to. The sound was unmistakable, despair. He rolled over and put his ears under the pillow.

Francis had been a banker, he was growing certain of that. Whether an important one or a trivial one he couldn't remember - he was still working on that. Francis was 49.

photographic personality test

2007-12-28T10:57:00.001-04:00

I took a personality test which involved measuring accurately (with on-screen pointers) a dozen dimensions from a neutral photo of my face. After a series of questions the programme told me all about my personality. It makes very accurate reading I have to say.

Stability results were low which suggests you are very worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.

Orderliness results were very high which suggests you are overly organized, reliable, neat, and hard working at the expense too often of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity, and fun.

Extraversion results were low which suggests you are very reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

Trait snapshot:
depressed, introverted, neat, needs things to be extremely clean, observer, perfectionist, not self revealing, does not make friends easily, suspicious, irritable, hates large parties, follows the rules, worrying, does not like to stand out, fragile, phobic, submissive, dislikes leadership, cautious, takes precautions, focuses on hidden motives, good at saving money, solitary, familiar with the dark side of life, hard working, emotionally sensitive, prudent, altruistic, heart over mind, unadventurous.

Oh dear, that really is me.

PS: I have a 13 part short story ready to post so you may like to check back on Jan 1st.

12 months have raced by

2007-12-10T21:49:00.001-04:00

This is the scene as I walk near our apartment. Inhospitable Arctic tundra I hear you remark... and you'd be right about the landscape. Amazingly, amid all this ice and snow, beat warm and friendly hearts. The Canadians I have met make me very welcome indeed and show me a great deal of interest.

The landscape on Prince Edward Island is like no other. The earth is brick red, the fields a deep green and the sky a rich blue. The light is piercingly clear and the air crisp and clean. Entertainment is simple and life is slower and more leisurely than in the bustling cosmopolitan cities I grew used to. Potatoes and grain are grown at breakneck speed during the brief summer months before winter's white cloak descends.

This small island has far more than its fair share of poets, writers and musicians. Something about the remoteness and the isolation makes your thoughts turn inwards to seek creativity there. You are never more than a few minutes from the sea and the wind is a constant reminder of that. In summer the blue waves crash in white foam on the pink sand. In winter the slabs of ocean ice buckle and slide, locking the land in an icy embrace. Summer is hot but too short and winter is long but too cold.

The regular forecast in January is from minus 15 to minus 20 and the windchill factor lowers the temperature to minus 30. Previously an ardent disbeliever in hats, I have at last started wearing my tuque and even donning my warm padded coat without complaint. Recently I invested in a pair of gloves. I am becoming a Canadian.

All I need now is my residency permit.

weather or not

2007-12-05T14:26:00.001-04:00

There are some more here.

a grave matter

2007-12-02T12:50:00.003-04:00

The 275 or so small rural cemeteries on Prince Edward Island allow a fascinating and free new approach to my genealogy pursuits. The trouble is I now have some nerve damage where my shutter finger froze to my camera in the sub zero wind.

seven random facts I've learned in sobriety

2007-11-26T20:52:00.004-04:00

I was tagged by Fathorse.

1. Your bladder shrinks to the size of a pea in sobriety, perversely resulting in even more night time needs to piss.

2. At night my bed no longer flips slowly end over end, causing me to lean out and lay a hand on the carpet to stabilise the room.

3. Pruning a Juniper tree releases the powerful scent of pure gin.

4. It is not necessary to fall into a deep sleep at 7pm each evening.

5. Hospitals could save money by using Carlsberg Special Brew as a general anaesthetic.

6. I have saved £35,000 since quitting booze on 10 Sep 1993.

7. You don't need to smoke when you stop drinking. So I saved a further £19,000 since 7 June 1997.